


Aubade

by AuditoryCheesecake



Series: The Skyhold Symphony Orchestra [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Anxiety Attacks, Beware the Pun, Embrace the Cliche, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Krem/Harding, Minor Sera/Dagna, Minor Sera/Maryden, Modern AU, Slow Burn, orchestra AU, theme songs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after leaving Tevinter for good, Dorian gets a place as the newest violinist in the Skyhold Symphony Orchestra. He goes to a concert with his roommate, and the (very hot) lead guitarist shows up at rehearsal with a harp and terrible puns.<br/>The Iron Bull didn't ask for any of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving In, Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds an apartment, and a friend.

Dorian was very relieved when the rep from the Skyhold Symphony Orchestra finally called. He’d made it through the final round of auditions and was expected at an afternoon rehearsal the next day. Barring unforeseen circumstances, his first paycheck would not be far off.

That, even more than returning triumphant to the stage, was good news. He’d cut back on luxuries to make money last, and his meals were mostly beans and rice at this point, but he was still fast approaching his limits. He’d reached out to the SSO in a way that was too desperate to be called a whim, remembering that Alexius had always held grudging respect for the Fereldan institution. And, after all, Dorian had turned his back on Tevinter, on his teacher, and his parents. Why not insult them one step further and play for entirely the wrong team? He smirked at himself. The Imperium didn’t know what it was losing.

Well, that was that. He had a job, and he was on his way to a likely-sounding apartment. Things were looking up for this twenty-nine-year-old runaway. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bus windows and suppressed a shudder. He needed a real shower and a real mirror soon, things would start looking decidedly down. Stubble and smudged eyeliner was good for very specific mornings after, _not_ a good everyday look.

With an ear splitting screech, the bus rolled to a stop in front of a black of buildings that Dorian tried very hard not to call a tenement. A sign by the sidewalk declared, in faded blue letters: _Haven Apartments_. This was the place.

Hefting his violin case and swinging his duffle bag onto his shoulder, dorian shuffled off the listing bus behind a grumbling dwarf. He vanished into one of the buildings while Dorian scrolled through his texts. _Building 4… the one with the broken steps_. Not too hard to find. He hit the buzzer next to number 309 and waited. The name “Smith” was written on a piece of white masking tape next to it.

He was almost fifteen minutes, but that wasn’t his fault. He’d spent half an hour planning his route with a very kind older lady, and they’d agreed that it was either fifteen minutes too soon or an hour too late. Dorian hadn’t wanted to annoy his potential roommate by changing the time by that much. As he stood on the cracked front step, it occurred to him that this might be just as annoying. Maybe they had wanted more time to clean before he got there?

Worried, Dorian began to smooth his mustache, a habit that his mother had always discouraged. The memory of her scolding was already tinged with an unpleasant twist of homesickness, and Dorian stroked his mustache more vigorously, annoyed.

“Hi there!” a cheerful voice broke into his nervous fretting, and Dorian looked down to meet a wide smile and bright brown eyes, watching him over a stack of thick books and a small pile of boxes. One box was clear and filled with… gears and runestone, from the look of it.

“Are you new in these parts?” the dwarf radiated enthusiasm. “Could you do me a favor open that door there? I’d do it myself, but…” she shrugged and tapped her nose against a box. It wobbled and something in it made a small chiming noise.

“Well, I would,” Dorian said hesitantly, “but I believe it needs some sort of code?” In Tevinter, he could have unlocked it with a spell, but his education had been mostly in music and some theoretical thaumaturgy, so he was a bit spotty on the interactions between magic and electronics. He know not to cast an energy spell at a light socket, but the specific internal machinations were a bit beyond him. This door, certainly was.

“Of course, silly me! I really should rig up some sort of remote for myself. But that might defeat the purpose of the security measures, and the super probably wouldn’t like it. Hm, but if I never told anyone…” she trailed off, into her own mind. Dorian waited patiently. He was early, after all. “Oh! Right! The code is 8664. You really have to jam the 4, it sticks a bit sometimes. The keypad was a bit lower than Dorian would have placed it, but of course it would be, if dwarves lived here as well as humans. Accommodation of more than one group-- just one more thing to get used to here in the uncharted South.

The 4 did stick, but the door swung open with a loud buzz on his second try. Dorian felt a bit of unreasonable pride at this tiny success. His new friend didn’t seem to mind the short wait, chattering along merrily. He followed her into the building and up a flight of stairs before she stopped suddenly and spun around to face him.

“I’m so sorry! I forgot to introduce myself! I’m Dagna. I’d shake your hand, but…” she shook the boxes again. This time, the chiming box toppled off its precarious perch. Before it could ht the ground, Dorian grabbed it out of the air with a small spell. He didn’t know if the mysterious noisemaker was fragile, or explosive, or what.

“I can hold this for you,” he said into the small silence that Dagna’s sudden lack of chatter left between them. She gaped at him. “Actually, if you’re Dagna, I should introduce myself as well. I’m Dorian, I texted you about the apartment? I know I’m early, but…” This was really very awkward. He know that magic wasn’t as all-pervasive in the South as it was in Tevinter. Most mages lived in the Circles or in Colleges, studying magic and keeping to themselves. The old Templar order had faded into obscurity in the past century, but he imagined tradition held strong in Ferelden, just as anywhere else. Magic was probably not a common sight.

Dagna’s eye narrowed and suddenly-- Dorian thought she might do most things suddenly-- he found himself the object of intense scrutiny. He tried not to fidget.

The serious look cleared as quickly as it came, and Dagna was beaming again. “Oh this is great, just great! You’re a mage? And a well-trained one, but the looks of it! Get that door there, 309, that’s the one. It’s not locked, i’d just popped down to Dennet’s for these books, i was hoping to be back before you got here, i thought i’d left myself enough time… I know I did! Are you early? Sit anywhere, I’ll put these down and get us some coffee. Do you like coffee?” she continued talking all the way up the second flight of stars and as Dorian opened the door to a cozy, cluttered apartment.

Dagna vanished through an open door into what was probably the kitchen, and Dorian lost track of her words as he set down his bags and looked around. He was in a small entry space that lead quickly into a living room. A coat rack with arms at both human and dwarven height was on his left, adorned with no coats, but instead the fabricless skeleton of an umbrella, a wide brimmed hat out of an Anderfels western, and three feather boas. The walls he could see were all painted a soft sky blue, and directly across from the front door was a small view with a passable view of the Frostback mountains. The living room held, just barely, a loveseat, two armchairs, a coffee table, a small television set, and probably a dozen bookshelves.

The titles of the books were varied and fascinating. They ranged from romance novels to treatises on the architecture of the Fade. there books on magical theory, bird-spotting guides, and a few leather-bound monsters that could be described as _tomes_

The walls were decorated in the same eclectic taste. Travel brochures, sketches of the Deep Roads, band posters, and a disturbingly detailed diagram of Darkspawn anatomy were pinned up at random. A solar system mobile spun gently just above Dorian’s eyelevel, suspended from a ceiling fan. A clock ticked softly, leaning against a pot of sprawling crystal grace on the window sill. Its face had been removed, and the hands spun backwards as the gears shifted. Other pointless, or perhaps simply mysterious, contractions resten on bookshelves and chair backs. One emitted a puff of blue mist every few seconds. It felt a bit like he’d walked into a magister’s study in an old fairy tale, and Dorian loved it.

Taking Dagna at her word, he shifted an annotated translation of the writings of Koslun-- that must have cost a fortune-- and a dog-eared copy of _Drakestone for Dummies: a Beginner’s Guide to the Geology of Thedas_ off a high-backed red chair that looked like it belonged either in a museum or a throne room. The other chair was green and orange paisley, and Dorian was not about to sit on _that._

Behind him, Dagna puttered about in the kitchen, apparently scolding the sugar for not being where she’d left it. He could see three doors down a small hallways, and assumed they were the bedrooms and bathroom. Dagna returned, and settled a tray with two cups of coffee and an honest-to-Maker Tevene porcelain sugar bowl, complete with gilded rim, on the scratched coffee table. She beamed at him across the steaming cups and Dorian smiled back, picking one up.

“So! I’m Dagna, yes, hello! Properly, this time.” she shook his hand firmly. “You’re Dorian and you’re looking for an apartment.”

“Precisely. I’m from Tevinter,” he bagan, and Dagna nodded cheerily, “I’m hoping to start over here, to be honest.” He wasn’t really sure what to say. He’d never negotiated this sort of thing before.

Dagna was happy to fill in when he hesitated. “Well, I’ve got a spare bedroom, so let’s compare notes and see if this’ll work.” she began to tick off items on her fingers. “Your share of rent would be 450 a month, which is really a steal for a place with actual glass in the windows. For another 50, you can reserve a parking space in the lot, but i’m guessing you took the bus here? Yeah, their schedule is shit. There’s a small grocery about five minutes’ walk away, but they’re not super diverse. I go out to the old Alienage for anything really dwarven, you’ll want to do that too if you want anything spicier than instant noodles. There’s a great farmer’s market on Tuesdays. Rules of the house are: no fire, no doomsday devices, no big parties without two days’ notice, we stay out of each other’s rooms, anything that gets the cops down here is strongly discouraged. We can split the cost of wi-fi. now , about the magic.”

Dorian blinked at her. She talked so _quickly_.

“I have no problem with it! Some people round here do, because people love to hate what they don’t understand. Me, if I don’t understand something, I want to take it apart and _figure it out_ , so don’t worry… well, that did sound a little bit threatening, didn’t? I mean, it’s all good. So’s your being a ‘Vint. you’re clearly not a walking caricature of bigotry, so I think we’ll be alright. You might have noticed I tinker a bit? Well, more than a bit, really. I’m in grad school, engineering, don’t worry, I hardly ever blow up anything that isn’t supposed to blow p. That’s why my last roommate left. She was a bit too jumpy, really. Well, that’s that, unless I’ve scared you off? I’m trying to say, I think we’d get along, and if you want to, this place is definitely open to you.”

“I think we’d get along too, Dagna.” Her smile grew even brighter, and Dorian felt himself grinning back. “I’ve only got these two bags, and I’ve got enough cash-- would you mind-- of you’re open to it, I’d just… move in now?”

In hindsight, maybe he should have considered staying at the motel one more night. Moving in this fast couldn’t possibly be the done thing.

But Dagna just nodded and kept sipping her coffee, and told him all about her dissertation.

When their cups were both empty, she showed him the other rooms in the apartment: the kitchen, bathroom, her door, and his room. It was small and dark blue, with soft carpeting, and Dorian fell onto the mattress with a sigh. Dagna’s last roommate had left sheets on the bed, and Dagna said she’d washed them, but there were no pillows. He’d go shopping soon, but for now, this was plenty.

If only his father could see him now. Living with a dwarf, determined to stay out of the closet, sleeping on a bed without pillows or servants to fluff them. He told the tiny Halward Pavus that lived in his head and constantly criticized him that he was determined to be best friends with Dagna, and imagined him fainting and falling off a cliff.

\---

He woke up hungry a couple hours later, and Dagna decided it was time for a small tour of the neighborhood. Stashing his violin under his bed and gratefully touching up his hair and face, Dorian followed her out into the late afternoon sunshine.

Not far from the front door was a food truck-- another novel experience-- where Dorian discovered that what Tevinter restaurants called “Fereldan-style burgers” were poor imitations of the true greasy glory. He regretted asking what they were made of when the question launched Dagna into in-depth explanation of Fereldan farming practices. He regretted it even more when she got to the point and told him he was eating druffalo. He’d met a druffalo once, in a petting zoo in Tevinter, and as smelly and shaggy as the beast had been, he’d been charmed despite himself. Felix had laughed himself silly over the pictures Dorian had taken of himself by the pen.

They ate on a bench in a tiny park and Dagna talked about everything that came to mind. Dorian was happy to listen. She was open and authentic in a way that people just _weren’t_ in Tevinter, at least not in the upper classes where Dorian had spent his whole life.

Maybe he was still in shock, or experiencing some weird mental lag, or the grease of the druffalo burger was going to his brain, but everything just seemed brighter. The clouds that hang hung over his bus ride had cleared, and the little patch of greenery around him seemed soft and cheerful. Dagna knew half the people who walked by, and waved at everyone, whether she knew them or not.

Doiran petted his first mabari, a round, slobbery puppy, and learned all about Dagna’s life. She spent a lot of time in the labs at her university, which she called the Undercroft, writing her dissertation on something extremely complex and groundbreaking, examining the properties of lyrium as a power source. Originally from Orzammar, she’d come topside to study and had never looked back. She loved nature documentaries and sci-fi, and engaged him in an aggressive trivia competition. That took them all the way through a trip to the grocery store and back to the apartment, and ended in a tie-- a mutually despised Star Trek sequel had been released under a different name in Tevinter. Something about the Magisterium's censors had deemed the original title too provocative. This strayed dangerously close to topics that Dorian was not remotely ready to deal with, so he asked if there were any bars nearby.

As he was coming to expect, Dagna lit up like veilfire in an elven ruin. “We _have_ to go to the Herald! The Chargers are playing there tonight! They’re great, you’ll love them.” she pointed to an eye-searing yellow poster on the wall.

The text screamed _Bull and the Chargers-- Musical Mercenaries_ in huge block letters. Aside from a dragon eating part of the final S, it provided no other information.

Dorian shrugged. “Sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to uniqueinalltheworld for being an awesome friend and beta, and knowing that Fereldan burgers HAVE to be druffalo because they don't have cows there!


	2. A Brand New Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Dagna go to a club. Sparks fly.

The Herald, despite its name, was a club and not a newspaper. The building seemed like a repurposed warehouse, spacious but dimly lit. Dorian could see up to the roof from the dance floor on the lowest level. Two stories of tables and chairs wrapped around the inside of the building, and gave the sense that it was a decent place to be during the day as well. Tonight though, the lights were pulsing and people were dancing close and fast as a DJ played deep, thumping music from a portable laptop set-up. The stage behind him was ready for a band, with a drum set, keyboard and mic stands. The flashing lights made it hard to tell, but Dorian was pretty sure the kick drum was the same terrible yellow as Dagna’s poster in the apartment.

Dagna pointed out the bar and peeled off to get them a table. She’d told him they’d have to fight to get a good one, and by the manic gleam in her eye, she was prepared. Dorian was in for his own struggle. The bartender was a striking Ravaini woman, and though she was efficient when it came to actually making drinks, she was clearly willing to linger and flirt for tips. After a few minutes, she finally worked her way down to Dorian. He’d already had his ass grabbed twice by unidentifiable strangers, and while he appreciated the complement, he really just wanted to get the drinks and find Dagna. The bartender, however, had different plans. She fluttered her eyelashes. She leaned forward to show off her chest when she asked for his order. She very nearly grabbed his hand. He evaded her and put on his best Haughty Altus expression. 

“Two Grey Warden Stouts, please and thank you, in the bottles.” In the back of his mind, his father scolded him for such a gauche, Fereldan choice. Had he really fallen so far from his illustrious upbringing?

The bartender pouted at him. It would have been enticing were she not... well. A woman. “You sure I can’t get you anything else, Mister tall, dark, and ‘Vintish?”

“Quite sure, you’re really not my type.”

“Really? I’m in control of your alcohol. You’d think I’d be everyone’s type.”

“Not mine, sorry.”

She gave him a fake sweet smile as she handed over the beer. Dorian relented and gave her a generous tip. This seemed like a decent place, he wouldn’t want to piss off the bartender for no reason. At home—in Tevinter, he corrected himself—there were three types of people you never wanted upset at you: your tailor, your butler, and your bartender. For the foreseeable future, he had access to only one of those groups, and he wasn’t about to screw that up.

Dorian fought his way through the crowd to where Dagna was waving furiously at him, and arrived just as the DJ introduced the Chargers. The lights roved over the crowd, the very _enthusiastic_ crowd, and focused on the stage. Dagna clutched his hand and shouted something, but Dorian couldn’t hear her, so he just nodded politely. Everyone in the room seemed to be screaming at the top of their lungs. Dorian considered the band as they came on to the stage, and judged them to be generally attractive. Humans, dwarves, an elf, nothing too exciting, though the lead singer looked very good in his leather jacket and mohawk. A pair of dog tags swung around his neck as he grabbed the mic. They sang a vaguely familiar song about cars and women and drinking. He had an impressive range, and the bassist and guitarist, a blonde elf and a dark-skinned human, were jumping around the stage with more vigor than the song really called for, but they were clearly enjoying themselves immensely and had yet to miss a note, so Dorian sat back and enjoyed their exuberance. The drummer, however, was very serious. Maybe he didn’t like the yellow drum. Dorian wouldn’t blame him, and wondered just who had chosen the color. The keyboard player perhaps. The dwarf was head banging with just as much enthusiasm as the crowd, and dressed in a bright red military-style jacket with a mustache to rival Dorian’s own. Dorian wondered which one was “Bull.” Traditionally he would assume the lead singer, but it didn’t quite fit.

The song ended with a high note that would have been impressive even in a Tevinter concert hall. When the wolf whistles and cheering died down, the singer ran a hand over the shaved side of his head and winked at the crowd.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and all people of other persuasions.” Dorian was surprised to hear a noticeable Tevene accent that hadn’t been present while he was singing. It sparked an unwelcome pang of homesickness and he took a deep swallow of the dark Ferelden beer. “As you all know by now, we are the Bull’s Chargers!” the cheering took off again and Dorian finished his drink. He motioned to Dagna that he was going back to the bar. He figured it might be easier to move through everyone if they weren’t dancing. “I’m Krem, the best counter-tenor this side of castrati,” the singer was saying. Dorian snorted, and found he was laughing with most of the other people in the bar. Odd. This was probably the only club in Ferelden where opera jokes got honest laughter. Maybe he was missing something. 

He did his best to elbow people out of his way _gently_ , while Krem introduced the rest of the performers on stage to more exuberant applause. They were obviously well known here, why didn’t they just play their music instead of putting on this act?

As Dorian tried to wave down the bartender, Krem changed his tone. “Okay everyone, your waiting is at an end! Fashionably late as usual, because he had to go and have a day job, allow me to introduce the one, the only, the Iron Bull!” He kept talking, but whatever he had to say was swallowed up as the crowd reached a truly worrying decibel. Dorian finally got his beer and turned to go back to the table, but stopped short when he caught sight of the apparently elusive Iron Bull.

He’d been wondering who chose the awful color scheme. Well, now he had his answer. The Bull was dressed in a pair of truly hideous plaideweave pants. The exact same shade of yellow as the drum, it looked like he had sacrificed a circus tent at the altar of terrible fashion decisions. There was no reason beyond demonic interference for a store to _carry_ that much plaideweave, let alone find someone to buy it and make it into pants. The Bull was also wearing a… mesh tank top? Dorian was thoroughly offended, though he did appreciate the way the fabric clung to the truly massive muscles that rippled (there was no other word for it) under an indefinite number of tattoos as the Iron Bull made a show of picking up and tuning a large, metallic blue electric guitar. Dorian’s throat went dry as the Iron Bull’s broad fingers unhurriedly adjusted the instrument, and then reached up to his face and fixed an eye-patch, with a hand-painted skull and crossbones, of all things, in place. Dorian chugged his beer and turned back to the bar for another. The bartender had been leaning on the counter just behind him, and handed him another beer without prompting. 

“That more your type then?” She yelled over the screaming crowd. Dorian tensed for a moment, but consciously made himself relax. This wasn’t Tevinter. He didn’t need to worry about this getting back to his father or what Alexius would say. He nodded, and felt a smile beginning. She grinned back, and poured two shots, pushing them over to him. “Tell Dagna that Isabela is expecting a favor in return.” Her wink was comical, and Dorian chuckled all the way back to the table. Dagna’s blush when he relayed the message was even better. Dorian felt like he’d laughed more that day than he had in months.

With the final addition of the Iron Bull, the band took off. Dorian grudgingly admitted that they were really quite good partway through the first song. Dagna got him onto the dance floor after a couple more, and Dorian let the music and dancing carry him where it would. Although the Conservatory had tried their best, Dorian was not a music snob. He could even enjoy classic rock songs played by a blisteringly hot Qunari in terrible clothes. Dorian imagined Halward Pavus listening to the Chargers, and took great pleasure in his dismay before turning his attention to dancing in earnest. Maybe he could find something, or someone, to really give his father a heart attack.

\---

Bull fucking loved performing. He’d play anywhere. But the Herald was his favorite stage, hands down. He’d watched the little club blossom from an awkwardly spacious bar with bright green walls into a powerhouse that even shit gossip rags like _Celene!_ called “the IT place in Skyhold.” There was talk about a franchise, opening a branch in Val Royeaux. Bull felt like a proud papa because he had helped build the stage he was standing on. He could perform in the fucking Magisterium and the Herald would still be his home base.

The Herald being his meant he had enough leeway to get to his own show late. He saw Sera in the audience as he strode onto the stage, which made just as much sense as ever because she had walked out the door behind him. But there she was, perched in the rafters like a blonde squirrel, gripping a red cup and looking a bit rough around the edges. She and Maryden had been fighting lately, so it was probably whisky, and not her first cup of it. Sera had an impressive tolerance for someone so tiny, but she’d hit her limit eventually and regret it when she did.

Bull turned his attention to his guitar, his beautiful blue ax, tuning it carefully and checking it against Dalish’s bass. Satisfied, he made sure his eye patch would survive the show, and threw himself into the music.

\---

Towards the end of the second set, Dorian found himself up against the front of the stage, with Krem wailing _Highway to the Danger Zone_ into the mic a few feet to his right. He danced alone and for himself, enjoying the feel of the bass pounding through his feet, into in his chest.

“Alright folks, one last song for the road.” Said a new voice as Krem took a drink of water. The Iron Bull had taken over the center mic, Krem dropping back and starting up a rhythmic clapping that the crowd caught quickly. “Time for some Billy Joel!” Bull said into the mic and launched into _Only the Good Die Young_.

Dorian was drunk. He knew that. But the Bull’s voice was deep and happy and Dorian stood stupidly at the front of the crowd and just watched him. Dagna materialized during the first verse, her hair a bit rumpled, and shouted something about dancing. Dorian started moving again to make her happy, but kept watching the Bull. Maybe because he was dangerously close to the booming speakers, Dorian felt like the Bull was singing to him. He wondered what it would be like, if he had someone who cared enough about him to say it publicly, someone to go home to when he left the club, who would be there in the morning when he woke up. 

He was definitely drunk.

\---

Bull had been good lately. Really, he had. He hadn’t drunkenly knocked over a lamppost in weeks and had actually rescued a cat from a tree the other day. It was his own cat, but it was the principle of the thing. He’d been good. It was entirely undeserved and uncalled for that the universe throw a fucking Sparkling Sex God into his club. The man looked half-debauched already, his hair falling into his eyes while he danced like a desire demon at the front of the crowd. His eyes were closed and his face shimmered in the flashing lights of the club, red and blue and gold. He was wearing a shirt that exposed one lean-muscled shoulder and bicep. His pants were a shimmery blue and had probably been applied with magic, because there was no way people just _grew_ asses like that. 

The guy was really into the music too, and Bull’s quick eye caught the spark of static lightning when he pushed his hair back. A Shiny Sex God _mage_ who was so caught up in Bull’s music that his magic was sparking on its own.

Bull wanted to lick him.

Then Shiny Magic Sex Guy opened his eyes and pinned him to the fucking wall with his stare. Bull felt like a halla in front of a semi-truck. He was fucking hypnotized by the sparks of lightning that kept skittering along Shiny Sex Guy’s mustache and his eyes that reminded Bull of a stormy day at sea because he was a fucking romantic at heart, piss off.

Bull was used to everyone looking at him while he performed—that was kind of the whole point—but this had an immediate, almost intimate feeling. Like the world was speeding up and slowing down around the two of them, all at once. Bull absently hoped that didn’t mess with his timing. Shiny Sex Guy wasn’t even dancing anymore, just watching Bull with an intense expression that also seemed miles away. The attention felt white-hot and heavy, and even though Bull knew it was impossible, it felt like this guy was looking at him in a way no one ever had before. 

He stared straight back at Shiny Sex Guy, and told him _Sooner or later it comes down to fate, I might as well be the one…_

Fuck off, he was a romantic. 

\---

The song kept going, the Bull kept playing and singing, and Dorian was drunk and mesmerized by the pulsing beat, the flashing lights, and mostly, what seemed like the Bull’s undivided attention. Dorian stared at him until he stopped playing and took a deep breath, and half a step forward. Then a bright pink bra hit the Bull in the head.

The Qunari startled a little and broke into booming laughter, lifting a tiny elf in a red minidress and leggings onto the stage. He hoisted her onto his shoulder where she grabbed the bra gave it a yank. It held firm and she lifted her hands with a whoop of triumph. She slid down the Bull’s side and pulled him towards the bar. “Drinks’re on you tonight big guy!” she was shouting as she dragged the Bull past where Dorian and Dagna were standing. Dagna was chattering away again, but Dorian couldn’t hear her over everyone else who was shouting now, and he was busy watching the Iron Bull’s back. The Bull looked over his shoulder briefly, and waved to the room at large, but his eye didn’t catch on Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing the Iron Bull!
> 
> A small note about magic- since Modern!Dorian doesn't use his magic in battle the way canon Dorian does, I think he wouldn't have quite the same level control over it. And thanks to Iron Bull, we know that even in game, accidents do happen when mages are... caught up in the moment. In general, expect more accidental magic than the game allows for. 
> 
> Thanks to uniqueinalltheworld again! This section especially owes a LOT to her editing skills.


	3. I Run With a Dangerous Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA, Awkwardness Concerto in D Flat
> 
> Dorian tries to make new friends.

Dorian woke up hungover and pissed off. The sunlight came through the window and right into brain and it felt like someone was banging on his head with a hammer. After a moment, he realized someone _was_ hitting his brain with a hammer. Or maybe just a wall. That was it. _Someone_ was hitting _something_ with a hammer and Dorian was going to _roast_ them.  
  
He poked his head out the door to him room and found Dagna in the kitchen tapping a screwdriver against the counter while she read a comic book and fried eggs. Dorian tried to say “shut the fuck up” but wound up croaking out something that sounded more like “coffee.” Well, he figured, that worked too, and he followed Dagna’s pointing to an already gurgling machine. There wasn’t enough for a cup yet, so Dorian went to brush his teeth. His mouth felt like a nug had died in it.  
  
After two cups and a piece of toast, the best breakfast he’d tasted in weeks, Dorian felt functional enough to run scales. Violin playing wasn’t a traditional hangover cure, to be sure, but the familiar movements always soothed Dorian. It was nearly a form of meditation, and had been an acceptable escape from many problems, not just headaches.  
  
His phone buzzed at eleven and he returned the violin to its case, to get ready. Dorian had noticed that not as many people, men or women, wore makeup in the South, even the night before at the club. With that in mind, and unsure of the types of people the Skyhold Symphony employed, Dorian kept it simple. Eyeliner was essential, of course, and he paid careful attention to the curl of his mustache, and dressed rather casually; the most dramatic part of the ensemble was his favorite scarf. On its long chain as always, Dorian tucked the pendant Felix had given him under his shirt. A small violin, rendered in loving but inexpert detail, a reminder of home, of the closest thing to a brother he’d had. Felix’s death was what had started this whole chain of events; leaving his teacher, his guaranteed place in the Imperium Conservatory, his father, his whole life, behind. Felix had told him to follow his heart and take no shit. Well, for now the closest thing he had to a heart was his love of music, and his ability to make it. And he was definitely done with the pile of shit that was supposed to be a supportive family, so here he was on his way to his first rehearsal with the Skyhold Symphony Orchestra.  
  
\---  
  
The bus lines were shit. Scheduling was shit. Everything was awful and he was squeezed between a crying Qunari toddler and an old elven woman who smelled like cheese. He only had to take one bus to the old castle museum in the north part of town that housed the SSO’s rehearsal space. However, that bus took forty minutes to go the ten miles and would get him there half an hour early. He’d checked and double checked, but it was the only feasible plan. If the weather was nicer or the museum not up a truly ludicrous hill, he might have walked. But no, he was trapped on a rickety bus with a toddler trying to grab his violin.  
  
Trying to fend off the little demon spawn without hurting it or offending its mother, who looked tired and glad to have something to distract it, Dorian almost missed the view as the bus trundled along the causeway to the castle that dominated the Skyhold landscape. Dorian’s history books said it was an old elven fortress, used sporadically throughout the ages as a military stronghold. Some hundreds of years ago, after the last Blight, a group of religious fanatics had turned it into a pilgrimage site, and a city had grown up around the old fortress, which had been repurposed into a museum and cultural center. Dorian was fairly sure that the “religious fanatics” was Tevinter spin. Anyone with half a brain would want this place for their own. He’d fight off a dragon if he got to see this view every day.  
  
Since he was early, Dorian double-checked that he knew how to get to the rehearsal space, grabbed a tiny but still overpriced sandwich, and went to explore the exhibits in a building nearby. Old military banners hung on the walls, and glass cases displayed swords, shield, and war staves. Intrigued, Dorian spent most of his time in front of the mages’ equipment. He circled a tall staff with a ball of crystal embedded in it. It reminded him of the fancier things any self-respecting altus mage carried to display their rank, but bigger, and more menacing. He fancied he could still feel the crackle of an energy spell from hundreds of years before.  
  
Twenty minutes before the rehearsal was scheduled to begin, Dorian returned to the door marked with stylized music notes and the letters SSO. He was unnecessarily nervous, and tried to give himself a pep talk, but wound up psyching himself out even more. He stood with his hand on the door knob for almost a minute.  
  
Apparently the universe had something about him, doors, and dwarves, because someone cleared their through behind and below him. “Are you going in, or are you just going to stand there like bronto calf until someone moves you?” Dorian spun around to glare haughtily at the speaker, a middle-aged dwarf, clean shaven, but with a veritable thicket of chest hair peeking through a partially unbuttoned shirt. He had two bags slung over his shoulders. One looked like a basic messenger bag, the other looked like an accordion case, embroidered with the name “Bianca” in looping blue letters.  
  
Dorian blurted the first thing that to his mind. “I doubt you have what it takes to move me, Bilbo Baggins.” What. Were his cutting remark skills really that rusty? Felix would be ashamed. Immediately embarrassed, he retreated further into his façade, and stared down his nose at the smaller man.  
  
The dwarf snorted at him. “Well if it’s going to be like that, Sparkler…” Dorian felt his cheeks heating under his lightly shimmered foundation which was _very fashionable and really rather understated, thank you very much._ He could feel a more caustic comment building in his throat, but was saved from truly saying anything truly offensive by the person behind the dwarf. A large, dark-haired man, who Dorian had somehow entirely overlooked, tapped the dwarf on the shoulder.  
  
“We really do need to get into the room, Varric.” said six feet of muscle and beard. _Hello_ , thought Dorian. The lumberjack extended a hand to Dorian, and might have smiled? It was hard to tell. “I’m Thom Blackwall, this is Varric Tethras, and this is my replacement chime stand that I really need to get into the room before Josephine realizes the old one broke. “  
  
“Dorian Pavus, charmed.” Dorian shook the massive paw in front of him and stepped through the door to hold it open.  
  
“You’re the new violin, then?” Varric asked as he and Lumberbear struggled with the metal frame. “Good, you seem much more likable than that Samson guy Cullen found.”  
  
“It speaks well to Cullen’s character that he tries to help out his old friends.”  Blackwall said in gentle reproof. It sounded like an old argument.  
  
“Old friends aren’t always good friends, Hero. You know that better than anyone.” Dorian sensed a story but didn’t want to pry. Varric turned to him as they got the awkward hunk of metal through the door. “So, Sparkler. We hear you hail from the glamorous North?”  He didn’t seem to have taken much offense to Dorian’s poor attempts at repartee. “Are you on the run from a terrible secret? An arranged marriage? An unarranged child?” Dorian knew these were just random, throwaway words as Varric crossed the room to the grand piano and pulled a thick folder out of his bag, but they hit close to home. He was glad that Varric was facing away from him and couldn’t see the discomfort that must have crossed his face.  
  
“To be honest, I’m looking to start over. Tevinter didn’t have the kinds of opportunity I’m looking for.” Varric nodded absently at his vague answer, taking the avoidance without complaint. He shuffled some music scores around on the piano bench. Seeing Dorian’s interest, Varric handed him a copy of _Into the Darkness_ , a familiar melody written by an artist whose name was long lost. The score was heavily marked in a number of colors, with emphatic circles around challenging runs, whole measures scribbled out and rewritten, and notes like “hit the fuckn pedal here” and “listen to the danm woodwinds!!” Varric's spelling was abysmal, but the familiarity of notes like these made him feel a sense of kinship to the dwarf. Alexius had always insisted on preforming with pristine, unmarked scores, or no paper at all if possible, but the sheet music that Dorian practiced on, the music he’d brought with him from Tevinter, looked a lot like this.  
  
“How’s your sight reading?” Varric asked as Blackwall stuffed a broken chime frame loudly into a closet and slammed the door, muttering prayers that no one would find it before rehearsal was over.  
  
“Acceptable.” Dorian replied, because it was. Felix had always been able to play anything perfectly the first time, and Dorian didn’t measure up in comparison. He’d never been able to play through a first reading without at least one sour note. He never had more than three, either, but relativity is everything.  
  
“No one’s going to be here for another five minutes at least. Want to give this a go?” Varric replaced _Into the Darkness_ with a neat, hand-written score. The letters "V.T." looped with a flourish on the upper right corner.  
  
“That means he likes you!” Blackwall shouted from the back.  
  
“Shut it, Hero!” Varric yelled, but he smiled at Dorian with no embarrassment and shrugged eloquently. “I never say no to a fresh set of eyes.”  
  
Dorian looked it over. It wasn’t complicated, sort of a miniature fugue, with two themes that chased each other along the staff. He could already hear it in his head, and took his violin out, tightening his bow and testing the strings. A true product of the Imperium, it was designed for mages—it held its tune better through heat and cold than an average violin. Dorian was not so undisciplined that he had ever frozen an instrument in frustration, but no mage could really control the heat or ice that might leak out of fingertips when they were fully focused on the music. It was still beautifully in tune from the morning, and Dorian launched into Varric’s music with little lead up.  
  
He made it most of the way through without a mistake, only faltering slightly as the door opened behind him and a loud conversation drifted into the room. The speakers quieted quickly, and Dorian restarted the phrase to finish the piece with an improvised flourish. Blackwall and the newcomers applauded, but Varric all but grabbed the paper back and started scribbling away.  
  
“Sorry,” Dorian started, “I added that bit, it just felt like it could fit… I wasn’t trying to criticize your work, or, or show off.” He had overstepped. In Tevinter, altering a piece, _in front of the composer_ , was a cardinal sin.  
  
Varric waved him away and Dorian felt his heart plummet. He turned to put his violin back in its case, hands shaking and fingers tight, when two faces crowded into his personal space. Did everyone in Ferelden sneak up on each other? Two women, an elf and a dwarf, stared at him with open interest. “Sorry Varric’s rude.” said the dwarf. Her red hair brushed her shoulders as she shook her head. “He’s been trying to find a good ending to that for months. What you did is five times better than anything he’s come up with.” Dorian tried to calm himself down, and wondered if either woman was picking up on the wave of panic he’d experienced.  
  
The elf shook poorly-cut bangs out of her eyes and stared at him suspiciously. “That violin’s an Archon, innit?” she had a heavy Fereldan accent and it took Dorian a moment to parse her words. He held his violin carefully in front of him, cradling it as he showed it to her.  
  
“It’s a Lovais, specifically,” he said softly, and she ran a finger along the neck with gratifying reverence.  
  
“Phwoar. That’s damn expensive, yeah? Always wanted an Archon. They don’t make bugger shit you can afford if you’re people. Did you steal it?”  
  
Dorian bristled. “It was a gift, actually.”  
  
“Who’d you fuck then?”  
  
He stared at her a moment, feeling his pulse quicken with anger and not a small amount of panic. Her accusations were baseless, she didn’t know him or his history… but old habits die hard. His father's voice was hissing in the back his mind, telling Dorian that was only what was expected of someone like him. He was a failure and no one would ever take him seriously, even an elf in backward Fereldan. With less grace than he’d have liked, Dorian pulled away from her and placed his violin carefully back in its case. “It was a gift from my teacher to commemorate my graduation from the Imperium Conservatory.” He told the velvet lining. “I would have played it on the stage of the Magisterium Theatre if I had stayed in Tevinter.”  
  
She whistled crudely and the dwarf looked impressed by his defensive name-dropping. “Why you shitting around in the asshole of nowhere, then, if you’re all special?”  
  
“My personal views are not aligned with those of my father or the Conservatory. I broke ties and am making my own way.”  
  
“You left a sure thing ‘cause you had a fight with your dad.”  
  
“I knew I’d be happier without his expectations to live up to.”  
  
“You got gold shitting down on you, all clothes and fancy piece and stuff, people and servants to tune your violin and wipe your ass, and you pissed off because it wasn’t enough?.” The elf scoffed and Dorian wanted to run away. He knew he’d had an easy life growing up, but just having _things_ wasn’t a replacement for parents. And it didn’t make up for parents like Halward.  
  
“There’s more to happiness than just having money.”  
  
“But money’s better at buying food than happiness is at buying anything.” Rumbled a new voice from the doorway.  
  
Dorian said quietly, “I’d rather starve than live a lie,” and tried to fight away the tightness crawling up his throat. How in the name of the Maker did this happen? The rehearsal hadn’t even started and he was ready to cry. _So much your precious fresh start_ , his father’s voice said, _no friends to be found here_. Well if there was one thing he learned in Tevinter, it was that if someone hit you, you didn’t hit them back, you ripped out their fucking throat. He counted out two measures-- ¾ time, what would have been six heart beats if he were calm—and straightened his shoulders to glare up at this new attacker.  
  
It was the Iron Bull. The terrible plaideweave was gone, replaced by sensible jeans. That was offset by the loud floral print t-shirt he was wearing, and the skull-and-crossbones eye patch that Dorian vaguely remembered from the night before. The Qunari leaned casually against the door frame, his horns knocking against the wall above it. Maker, he was even taller than he’d looked on stage. He was more intimidating too, his arms crossed, stretching the cheap fabric of his shirt and his one eye narrowed slightly. Dorian was used to the up-down look that many people gave a well-dressed man like himself, but as he glared back into the Bull’s pale eye, he felt like he was being cataloged and _assessed_. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Bull suddenly started psychoanalyzing him. The idea that this stranger felt like he knew anything about Dorian’s life pissed him off and chased away the shaky self-pity that churned in his stomach. He settled his weight on his heels and prepared to glare the Bull into the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Varric! And Blackwall! and Sera! And Cadash! I love them all they're great.
> 
> Poor Dorian is having some issues though. 
> 
> This time, super big thanks to uniqueinalltheworld for her help with Sera! And titles!


	4. The Skyhold Symphony Orchestra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's all here!  
> Dorian gets to know his new ensemble, and continues to be perfectly suave.

Bull got to rehearsal in plenty of time, but not before Sera, and he could already hear her talking angrily to someone with an unfamiliar voice. Like Maryden liked to say, Sera was never very agreeable, and she was worse hungover and sad. 

He opened the door and saw her glaring at an unfamiliar man near the piano. Varric was scribbling, oblivious, but Cadash and Blackwall looked very uncomfortable. The man’s back was to him, but Bull could see the tension in his shoulders, his hands tight by his sides as Sera laid into him about growing up rich. _Vashedan_ , this would take some diffusing.

He needed to get Sera off the guy’s back. In this mood she would bite his throat out if he said the wrong thing. He probably wouldn’t, though. He was wilting in the face of Sera’s aggression, staring at his violin case and making weak responses. Bull said something that he knew wouldn’t help even as the words left his mouth, and sure enough, the guy deflated even further. He stared at his violin case in silence, breathing hard though his nose. Satisfied that she’d won, Sera went to take her frustration out on the broken zipper of her backpack.

Fuck. It was Shiny Sex Guy. Even in profile, his mustache was unmistakable. His clothes and skin were much less shiny, and his jaw was tight with anger, but it was definitely him. Right down to the sparks that were gathering on his fingertips, though those were significantly more threatening than they’d been the night before.

Shiny Sex Guy (Bull needed a better name) was quiet for long enough that Bull was tempted to poke him. But then he said, in a clear, quiet voice, that he would rather starve than live a lie, and turned to stare at Bull with all the fight of a cornered dragon. 

At a loss for words, Bull stared at him and took in the way his jacket hung a bit loose on his shoulders. His cheekbones, which had looked high and lean in the shifting light of the club, seemed a bit gaunt.

He was telling the truth. Fuck. Well, if the night before Bull had wanted to lick Shiny Sex Guy’s face, in the cold light of day he resolved to stuff it full of food.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Bull was the focus of a very powerful stare, and it was far less pleasant this time around. Shiny Sex Guy was getting angrier every second that Bull stood watching him and not speaking. Bull hadn’t meant to piss him off but he’d really stuck his foot in it and for once wasn’t entirely sure how to backpedal. He figured it was probably in everyone’s best interests if he kept Shiny Sex Guy’s attention for long enough to distract him from Sera. 

There was the added benefit of simply having Shiny Sexy Guy’s attention, positive or not. He figured he could always smooth things out later.

\---

“Right. Umm…” The red-haired dwarf broke awkwardly into the tense silence. “I guess you’re our new violin?” She ventured. Dorian broke off his staring contest and focused on her. It wasn’t a struggle for dominance, he wasn’t backing down. He was just attending to more important things than a self-important guitarist. Why was the Iron Bull even here? This was an orchestra, not a club. Maybe someone needed him to carry things. The blonde elf was unzipping the travel case of a double bass as tall as she was. The Bull must have carried it here for her. Dorian had better things to worry about.

“I’m Cadash, 1st chair French horn. That’s Sera,” she gestured to the elf “and that’s the Iron Bull. He plays harp.” Dorian couldn’t contain a snort of disbelief. But sure enough, the Bull had crossed the room to roll a harp out of a closet and towards the piano. It was a full-sized instrument, but it looked comically small in the Bull’s hands. Dorian’s gut gave a lurch and he suddenly remembered staring at the Bull’s hand on the pegs of his electric guitar. The harp rolled up to him and stopped, and the Bull peered around the frame.

“You’re standing in my spot.” Dorian stared at him, ready to restart their totally-not-a-dominance-thing staring contest. He felt a bit silly when the Bull didn’t respond to his hostility, but instead waited for him to move with infuriating patience. None of this was going according to plan.

Varric finally looked up from his papers. “Huh, maybe I should call you Prickly instead of Sparkly.” He told Dorian’s back conversationally. “He will roll that harp over you, just so you know. You might want to at least move your Archon.”

Given this avenue of graceful retreat—no musician Alexius trained put personal feeling before the physical safety of an instrument like that—Dorian picked up his case and stepped aside. “Where do I go then?” He asked Cadash. 1st chairs knew where everyone belonged. He wasn’t in her section, but she would probably know anyways.

“Well, it’s Josephine and Vivienne’s decision, but as the most junior member you’re almost definitely inner back… so… put your violin here for now, and they’ll move you if they want to.” She gestured to a chair directly in front of the Bull. Of fucking course. Suppressing a growl, Dorian settled for his best offended stalk as he circled the chairs and took the Archon back out of its case, fussing over it to avoid any hostile eyes. So maybe this wasn’t how he’d planned his first rehearsal. So maybe he was shit at making friends, but he was here to do his job. Sera’s haircut and the Bull’s painful floral shirt might be unprofessional, but they were members of a highly respected orchestra. He was sure they’d all be able grin and bear it during shows, and ignore each other during rehearsals. Maybe they’d even learn to be polite. He’d managed it with people far more actively malicious.

Other members of the orchestra trickled in over the last few minutes before the rehearsal began. Dorian watched them because he was interested, not at all because he was ignoring the soft sounds of the Iron Bull tuning a harp behind him. Not at all, that would be ridiculous. He was also not extremely aware of the Bull’s eyes on the back of his neck or the shadow that sometimes fell across his music stand when the Bull reached forward to the lower notes of the harp. He checked his A-string for the third time, then unpacked and repacked his resin to give his hands something to do. 

A severe looking woman rolled a second harp into the space on the Bull’s right and introduced herself as Cassandra Pentaghast. The name was familiar to Dorian, but she was already turned around and sniping at Varric by the time he placed it as a family of opera singers so prolific and generally talented that even his father grudgingly respected them. He wondered how she’d gotten so far away from the family business and family home in Nevarra. 

A harried-looking blond strode in with a trumpet and a determined expression. He faltered and blushed when Dorian gave him an unsubtle once-over, but sat heavily behind and to Dorian’s left, and stayed put out of sight.

Josephine Montilyet appeared for a moment, welcoming Dorian officially to the SSO family without putting down her clipboard. She was collected as he remembered from his audition, but then rushed back out, saying she’d forgotten something—her coat?-- in the car. A redhead who reminded him of Black Widow handed him a folder of sheet music and told him that she was Leliana, before getting interrupted by her cell phone. Her ringtone was inexplicably a recording of crows. Another dwarf came in, hauling an oboe on her back. She came over and chatted briefly to the Bull after introducing herself to Dorian as Lace Harding. 

Before Josephine returned to start rehearsal, more musicians filed in, though only two spoke to Dorian. One was the assistant principle violin, an elf named Solas who was wearing the deepest vee-neck sweater Dorian had ever seen—and the other was Vivienne de Fer.

If anyone had made posters of concert violinists, Dorian would have had Madame de Fer’s face plastered all over his bedroom walls for the last three years. Instead, he had a treasured playbill from one of her only performances in Tevinter. In addition to being a flawless style icon and masterful violinist, Madame de Fer and her partner Senator Bastien used their money and influence to support charities and causes, a trend Dorian wished Tevinter had picked up even more than her beautiful hats. In Tevinter, any lavish party was thrown simply to show that it could be, and occasionally to ask politely for campaign donations, but Madame de Fer really seemed to use her powers for good. Dorian was really too cynical to think she was wholly altruistic, he had learned early in Tevinter that no one truly was, but if her chosen tool for gaining power was to get people to donate millions to homeless shelters and public schools, was that really so bad?

If he’d had any doubts, she dispelled them quickly. She turned toward Dorian, but got caught on the elf who was settling himself in the second violin chair. “Solas, is that necklace an actual bone? Dear, there’s alternative, and then there’s _unsanitary_.” She put down an immaculate violin case and no-nonsense black music folder and surveyed Dorian. “Now here is a man who knows how to dress. Sensible, and clean. Bull, you should take some tips from Master Pavus. Please pay attention to the way he presents himself.” Dorian was floored that she remembered his name from his audition.

Behind him, the Bull murmured “Yes ma’am, I plan on it.” Dorian ignored him and absolutely didn’t blush at his suggestive tone. 

Instead, he stood up and bowed deeply over Madame de Fer’s hand in a perfect copy of an Orlesian Duke bowing to the Empress. She received it as if it was simply what she expected, and Dorian bowed lower. “An honor, Madame de Fer.”

Sera snorted loudly from the bass section. “Go on. Stroke Vivvy’s ego a bit more.” Dorian suddenly recognized her as Iron Bull’s bra-shooting friend from the club.

“My dear, I am Madame de Fer. If you wish to receive my level of admiration, you need only to earn it.”

Sera blew an enormous raspberry. “It’s not like it’s your anything he wants to be stroking.” 

Dorian tensed, Sera’s words hitting home again and sparking an unreasonable flare of panic that he identified with Tevinter. He could hear his father chanting in the back of his mind…the scent of blood seemed to seep into him from somewhere… his could feel grip tightening on Vivienne’s hand and he bit his lip hard to stop from bolting.

Vivienne saw the panic, he was sure, and she turned a glare on Sera that literally lowered the temperature of the room. “That was beneath even you, Sera.”

“I guess you’d know, yer ladyship, since you spend so much time raising us commoners up out of the goodness of your heart.”

Dorian saw Vivienne’s dignified mask slip for just a second, hurt, and he turned to glare at Sera as well. She could make all rude comments she wanted about him and his sexuality, but insulting his hero was a step too far. He was about to tell her off when the Iron Bull rumbled “Enough, Sera.” From behind him in a tone that brooked no argument.

Dorian had barely a moment to be surprised at the Bull coming to his defense when Josephine bustled in back with a yawning teenager behind her. The kid slipped into the woodwind section, pulling a piccolo from his backpack. Cadash pulled off his ridiculous sun hat so she could see Josephine as the conductor tapped them into readiness. Well, Dorian tried to cheer himself up, at least this job wouldn’t be boring.

\---

Harding gave them the A on her oboe and for the next few hours, Dorian was fully caught up in the music. Since Felix’s death, Dorian hadn’t really played in any ensembles, or at all if he was honest, and he’d forgotten how much he loved it. Josephine was a skilled director. She managed to cover three pieces in four hours, and they played through each from start to end at least once. Dorian appreciated that they’d invited him to a full-orchestra rehearsal first, and was proud that they thought so highly of his audition. 

Perhaps it had to do with Vivienne being on the audition board, since she knew what her section needed at a different level than Josephine. She had taken him aside and put him through his paces like his first teacher, assessing his skills from the very basics up. He’d been half-prepared for her to reach out and adjust his grip the way Alexius always did, but was relieved when she did not. He’d had enough of being treated like a child.

The careful thing to do would have been to ease him into the orchestra a section at a time, starting with violins, then all the strings, than full ensemble. The SSO wasn’t so large that it would have been impossible, or an unreasonable way to introduce a new member. If he were in Tevinter, he’d expect to be asked to not play for the first rehearsal or two, to make sure he had a full understanding of the dynamics he was entering before he even set bow to string. Some directors would also have used that as an expression of power, exercising their control over their ensemble. Josephine had a far more lassiez-faire approach than any conductor he’d worked with before. The most casual director he’d worked under in Tevinter was the one who didn’t insist on being called “Maestro” and allowed the musicians to address him by name and ask unprompted questions.

The SSO could have been chaotic, and he’d been ready for that. He’d heard the horror stories of southern musicians _taking phone calls in the middle of rehearsals_ and singers who _chewed gum on stage._ But Dorian found that he could compare Tevinter ensembles to well-oiled, perfectly calibrated machines and Fereldan groups, or this one at least, to trees, perhaps coral reefs. Unapologetically organic and not concerned with perfect replication, but focusing instead on musical symbiosis.

Like Dagna’s cluttered, warm apartment, it was diametrically different from his life before, and Dorian resolved to make it his home. Halward's small voice began to his objections in the back of Dorian's mind, but Dorian imagined setting him on fire to shut him up.

\---

During a break, while Josephine went over a section with the cellos who were _just not getting it_ , Dorian took the opportunity to indulge in an epic stretch, bending over the back his chair with his arms outstretched. His hands ran into the Iron Bull’s harp and Dorian pulled his arms in quickly, but there was no hoping that the Bull hadn’t noticed.

“Sorry.” Dorian said softly, so as not to disturb the frustrated practice on the other side of the room. He was ready for a cutting remark from the other man, or some sort continuation of the hostility that Dorian must have inspired by that point.

“Mea culpa,” Bull said instead, and the familiar Tevene words set off the brief panic that Dorian was coming to realize was hooked to particular memories of home and his father. This time it collided briefly with a different tension, sparked by hearing his own language in the mouth of an undeniably attractive man, even one who was probably an asshole, judging by his actions so far. Run Dorian over with a harp, indeed. That’s just rude. “I’m used to Harding sitting there, so I take up more than my fair share of space.”

So that’s how it was going to be? Well, two could play this game. Dorian had plenty of experience being polite to far less pleasing people. “No harm done,” he responded, and because he apparently fell back on flirting and wanted to give himself an aneurism via embarrassment, “if you need the extra space, you’re welcome some of mine.”

Thankfully, the cello got over his issue and rehearsal continued before Dorian was able to get his foot any further into his mouth. 

After a minute and a particularly strong showing from the woodwinds, Dorian remembered that Harding was 1st oboe and would only ever have sat center stage, nowhere near the Bull and his harp.

\---

Bull’s excuses were awful today. 

He’d learned that Shiny Sex Guy’s name was Dorian, and that Dorian deserved way better than last chair, new or not. He’d probably get bumped up into the front pretty soon, which Bull both approved of and was disappointed by. Approved, because he believed in people getting what they earned and if an hour of rehearsal was anything to go by, Dorian could probably carry the whole damn section aside from Vivienne and Solas.

Disappointed, because Dorian moving meant Bull wouldn’t be close enough to get into Dorian’s space or reach down and run his fingers through his hair. On second thought, maybe it would be better to remove that temptation. He’d already been leaning forward on his harp for no reason other than to have his hands nearer to Dorian.

Dorian would not appreciate that, he was sure. The guy tensed up whenever he wasn’t playing, seeming to expect an attack from any side. No, that wasn’t quite right. From the way his body was angled, he was focusing most of his attention on the bass section, and keeping an eye out behind him as well. Bull doubted it was because Dorian thought Cassandra was hot. He recognized that tension and watchfulness. Dorian was still on the defensive against him and Sera. _Vashedan_ , that was a sad thought. Never mind his shiny sexiness, Bull didn’t want to be a source of that much anxiety to anyone. He decided on the spot not to give Dorian any more reasons to think of him as a threat.

But how exactly to do that…

\---

Four hours could be torture, but Josephine was far from a slave driver. Dorian found his estimation of her growing throughout the rehearsal; she had an uncanny intuition for what sections were flagging, or getting discouraged, even beyond the easy marker of sound. The group was at a respectable point with each piece: general comfort with a few rough spots scattered between movements and sections, mostly when sections tripped each other up. He watched as the whole orchestra got more comfortable, and by the end of each run-through, the main issues were entrances and dynamics; which would be smoothed out simply by more run-throughs.

He appreciated Josephine’s skill in time management, as well as the result: he got far more breaks than he was expecting, even if they were short.

During one, he ran the fingering for Darth Vader’s Imperial March silently on the neck of his violin. He'd learned it years ago to make Felix laugh, and hadn't managed to forget it yet.

During the next, he ran it again, but lazily, as he watched Blackwall knock over the snare drum and scramble to put it back up.

“A flat.”

“Sorry?” Dorian twisted around to look at the Bull.

“That bit goes E, E, E, F, C, A flat, low F, C. You were fingering a B.”

“And who are you to criticize my fingering?” the Bull’s smile turned sly and Dorian could feel a blush creeping up the back of his neck. “Don’t you dare say anything. Besides, how do you know I wasn’t improving it?”

The Bull fixed him with a disapproving frown as Josephine tried to help Blackwall get the snare upright and ran into the gong. Why did they even have that? “It’s the Imperial March, Dorian, John Williams doesn’t need your help.”

“How do you even know violin fingerings, anyway? You play harp and guitar.”

“Oh, do I?” Bull’s serious expression melted into a little grin that made Dorian’s heart flutter like a middle-schooler. “I thought you just got into town the other day, how do you know what instruments I play?”

“Um, well.” Venhedis, Dorian was caught. The Bull grinned at him with undisguised delight. Of course he was enjoying Dorian’s embarrassment. “My roommate took me to the Herald last night. I uh, saw your show.”

The Bull laughed, and would have brought the wrath of the section leaders down upon them if everyone else wasn’t busy watching Blackwall finally right his instruments and make up for lost time by nearly carrying Josephine back to her podium. Once there, she tried to start on the brass, who were also laughing, too hard to play properly.

Bull stopped chatting, but quietly hummed _Only the Good Die Young_ to himself until he had to start playing again.

Dorian was definitely blushing now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The SSO sets up on stage fairly similar to this image, http://s298.photobucket.com/user/robbinsrrr/media/orchestra.jpg.html, for anyone who's interested. The percussion section is ordered a bit differently, but besides that this should help you visualize where everybody is!
> 
> And Star Wars exists in this version of Thedas because I don't want to live in a world without Star Wars.


	5. Getting Home is Always an Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The buses are still shit. Dorian makes a friend?

Dorian left the building while the sun was just beginning to set, and watched it turn the mountains gold while he waited for the bus. Cadash invited him to a bar with some of the others, but Sera glared at him until Bull practically threw her over his shoulder whisked her away to Cadash’s giant SUV. Dorian wasn’t likely to be accepting rides any time soon in any case. He could pay for the bus, and wasn’t about to accept pity from his new colleagues. He’d made enough of an ass of himself before rehearsal.

He regretted this decision almost immediately when Vivienne offered him a ride, but stuck to his guns with tragic determination. He regretted it later too, when the bus was late and he didn’t have a jacket. Wrapping his scarf around his arms, Dorian glared at the moons, one rising and one high, and shivered angrily. He needed a drink.

A fleeting moment of hope passed him by when a pair of headlights turned out to be a minivan instead of the bus. It was probably the night guard for the museum and Dorian cursed to himself in Tevene. Telling the cold to fuck itself with the Divine’s hat made him feel a bit better, so he muttered increasingly outlandish insults until the same minivan pulled up in front of the bus stop.

Blackwall rolled down the passenger side window. “Dorian?”

Fasta vass. “So I appear to be.”

“Aren’t you a bit cold?”

“Why would you think that?” He groused. “It’s not like I’m on a dark mountain in the intemperate south.”

“Why are you still here?”

“The bus is late. Why are you here?”

“We came back to get that frame I broke. By the way, Ms. Montilyet can never know.” Dorian agreed. “Do you want a ride?”

Dorian demurred politely and Blackwall began to roll up his window, but the Bull, of all people, leaned across him from the driver’s seat and practically growled at him to get in the car.

“You drive a _minivan_?” was Dorian's kneejerk reaction.

“It’s safe, roomy and gets good mileage. Now get in before you freeze your little footsies off.”

Dorian glared for a bit. “Fine.”  
\---

The Bull dropped Blackwall in a part of town Dorian hadn’t been to yet, but seemed nice, definitely nicer than his new neighborhood. Blackwall had a house, which Dorian would never have thought much of before, but compared to his apartment it seemed almost palatial. Bull carried the broken frame inside, and Dorian got out of the car, because it would be a bright day in the void when he sat in the back of Bull’s car like a kid waiting for his parents. He leaned against the side of the van, at first resisting his instinct to drape languidly, and then embracing it. It was hardly an ideal situation, but Dorian was a pro.

The Bull paused on the front steps when he saw Dorian, but he staunchly refused to be embarrassed. If Bull thought Dorian looked ridiculous leaning against his car, then clearly he needed a better car. Not that he was anywhere near being able to afford his own vehicle, but Dorian would only buy something that he could lean against sexily. He was a man of _principle._

Bull didn’t say anything, which was good. He did open the passenger-side door for Dorian and tried to hand him into the car like a footman, which was confusing. “I am perfectly capable of getting into cars on my own,” he snapped. The Bull’s gesture reminded him too much of Tevinter. He closed the door with a bit more force than necessary.

Bull got in and turned the car on without comment, then turned to Dorian expectantly. “What,” Dorian snapped. He was tired and on edge. It was only barely past the twenty-four-hour mark since he’d moved into his apartment, and though he’d left Tevinter weeks ago it was still sinking in that he was done with all of that. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for any comments about Tevinter, or mages, and wasn’t sure what he’d do if the Bull started up on the money versus happiness thing again.

“I’ve got no idea where to go.”

Kaffas. Right. “Haven Apartments? It’s near the old burned out Chantry on Dumar Road.” Dorian hoped that was enough information to get them to streets he could navigate.

“Oh, I know the place! Stitches lives there!” He put the van into gear and they left Blackwall’s house behind.

“Who?”

“He plays guitar with me in the Chargers.” Fan-fucking-tastic. That meant he’d probably see Bull on days he didn’t have rehearsal or follow Dagna to a show. Not that he was planning to do that often. Of course not.

“His name is _Stiches_?”

“Not his real name, no. He’s a med student and an EMT. He stitched me up in the back of his ambulance once, so I didn’t have to go into the hospital or talk to cops. We got talking about music and he joined the band later. The name stuck.”

“Why were you avoiding the police?” Dorian did his very best to keep his voice level.

Bull was quiet for a minute. “Well, I guess it’s not a big secret. I used to be part of a gang, and they took it badly when I wanted out.” He took one hand off the wheel and lifted his shirt to show Dorian a scar that ran low above his right hip. Another time, Dorian would have been more distracted by the bottom edges of the tattoo that was visible, or the ways the passing streetlights cast shadows on the Bull’s bare skin, and he certainly noticed these things, but the scar grabbed his attention. It was jagged and long, and a white that was almost pinkish. Even long-healed, it looked wrong against his dark grey skin.

“That doesn’t really look like a “fix it in the ambulance” situation.”

“He has a friend.”

“So do lots of people.”

Bull glanced at him sharply. “A friend who’s good at this sort of thing. He was maybe running an illegal clinic on an expired healer’s license, but I wasn’t in a position to point fingers and you won’t either.” Dorian backed off. He understood the value of secrets.

They drove in silence for a while. Dorian leaned his head against the window and watched the lights.

\---

Bull didn’t usually talk about his near-death experiences with people he’d known less than a day. When he did, it was boastful, showing off his scars or as an invitation to touch him. He didn’t miss the way Dorian’s eyes lingered on his strategically bare stomach, but this wasn’t about sex. Not entirely.

Dorian was prickly and carried tension like Varric carried that fucking accordion of his: he knew it sucked but he just couldn’t let it go. Dorian probably had a name to go with his baggage too. He knew that he hadn’t made the best first impression on Dorian that day. Bull prided himself on his ability to understand other people quickly, but Vivienne had picked up on Dorian’s needs faster than Bull had, and Bull felt like he’d missed an opportunity for… something. He’d noticed how Dorian was ready to leap to Vivienne’s defense, but not his own, even when he clearly felt attacked. Vivienne had secured herself a loyal friend, but Bull was certain it went deeper than that. He supposed that Dorian was used to taking certain kinds of insults lying down simply to protect himself.

Dorian seemed determined to keep Bull at arm’s length. Perhaps it had something to do with the club… Dorian was clearly determined to be out of the closet, but maybe he was having trouble reframing Bull in a non-sexual light now that they were co-workers. (Bull was having some trouble with that himself.) Dorian was undeniably attractive, and knew it—that van lean was deliberate, Bull was sure—but he also set off some alarm bells. Dorian’s hostility, nervousness; there were issues he was grappling with. His fight-or-flight instinct seemed to be constantly bubbling under the surface. That wasn’t something Bull was ready to get wrapped up in.

But there had been a moment—a different Dorian, gentle and concerned about Bull. Dorian had been genuinely distressed by Bull’s scar, and it wasn’t physical aversion to a gory wound. Dorian was upset by the idea of Bull in danger, and Bull hadn’t done anything much to endear himself. The guy’s hard shell was plainly a desperate defense of a gooey interior if you looked at it in the right light. Not that Bull had ever seen his exterior in the wrong light. He was a natural at finding dramatic lighting. Krem was pretty good at that too. Maybe it was a Vint thing.

Beside him, Dorian heaved a deep sigh. Bull glanced at him briefly—driving could be difficult with only one eye—and saw that his tension hadn’t dissipated a bit in the ten minutes since they’d spoken. He was fiddling with something on a chain around his neck and looked more vulnerable and sad than Bull had seen. For Bull, glancing meant turning his head, and Dorian noticed the movement. He stuffed the necklace back into his shirt. He shifted on the seat, folding his left leg under him and angling his upper body toward Bull.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice earnest. His eyes glittered in the light from a flashing neon sign. The red glow from a traffic light reminded Bull of Dorian the night before, drunk, shining, and bathed in colored light like a statue under a stained-glass window in the Chantry. Bull felt dumbstruck, like the characters in the trashy books he and Cassandra read during long breaks.

Dorian swallowed hard and kept talking. His voice shook and Bull resisted the urge to grab his hand. Why would he do that, anyway? He didn’t have a clue what Dorian was apologizing for. “I’m sorry for—I was—I’m afraid I’ve made a complete ass of myself today. I had meant to… make friends. But…” He rubbed his mustache anxiously. “I’m sorry I upset Sera, I know I come from a privileged upbringing and can be insensitive without meaning too, I’m sorry I hit your harp during rehearsal, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night, staring at you, I’m sorry I tried to glare you into submission today, I’m—“

Bull cut him off with a heavy hand on his knee. “Breathe, Dorian.” He was starting to sound hysterical. “Half of those aren’t even your fault. I know I’m irresistible, you don’t have be shy about staring at me.”

Dorian snorted and seemed to regain some equilibrium. “It’s difficult to look away from a train wreck like your fashion sense, that’s for certain.”

“I’ll have you know that Cole thinks my clothes are awesome.”

“Is that the piccolo kid? Don’t trust him on clothes, have you _seen_ his _hat_?”

Bull smiled to himself. Dorian was back on solid ground, sputtering about the abysmal southern fashion he was surrounded by. He felt unreasonably proud of this little success. Reluctantly, he lifted his hand from Dorian’s knee as he turned onto Dumar Road. His missing fingertips tingled like electricity was running through them and he cracked his knuckle against the steering wheel. “Seriously though, don’t worry about Sera. She’s had a rough week and was going to take it out on someone sooner or later. Sorry it had to be you.”

He pulled up in front of Haven Apartments and put his van in park. Turning towards Dorian as well, he draped his right arm on the back of their seats. “So you were trying to ‘glare me into submission,’ huh?” Dorian flushed and grabbed his violin from the back seat, ducking under Bull’s arm. Bull assessed his furrowed brow and bright red ear. He seemed to be having issues unbuckling his seatbelt. Bull decided to push his luck. He leaned into Dorian’s space while he was still twisted around his seat. Making careful and direct eye contact, Bull covered Dorian’s hand with his own. Gently, but very firmly, he pressed Dorian’s fingers down on the buckle. It clicked open, but Dorian was frozen, staring into Bull’s eye from a frighteningly short distance away. Bull licked his lips and leaned closer to whisper in Dorian’s ear. “Don’t worry about touching my harp, either. If I’m welcome to your personal space, you’re welcome to mine.” He reached across Dorian with his left hand and opened the door. Brushing his hand just _barely_ over Dorian’s arm, he put on his best shit-eating grin and leaned back unhurriedly. “But I won’t _harp_ on you about it.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment before making a pained sound in the back of his throat and all but throwing himself out of the minivan. He slammed the door behind him and Bull made sure he got inside his building (number 4, he carefully did not memorize) before heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is anxious, Blackwall is a herald of destruction, and Bull's minivan has a five-star safety rating. 
> 
> So I've been trying to update every 2-4 days but that's going to have to slow down now that I've got a job that isn't just looking after my niece. I'll try to update once a week, but it might not be more than that. :(


	6. Suns Set and Time Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doiran settles in some, and meets some new people!

Dorian closed the door with more force than was strictly necessary and threw himself face-first onto the loveseat, where he lay and groaned for a full minute. When he could feel his mustache being bent past saving, he sat up and tried to sort through his emotions. Somehow, he was sure, he was being ridiculous, and he'd feel less confused once he figured out how.

Sera was part of this issue. He hadn't put his best foot forward in that interaction. Well, diplomacy was easy to do, and to justify. Not pissing off coworkers was a good rule of thumb. _Alright,_ Dorian told himself, _respect the Elf. I can do that._ He ignored Halward's rascist muttering. Listening to his father had only ever made things worse.

 _Fasta vass._ The problem with dealing with easier issues first was the big ones were still there after. And Dorian was starting to think the Iron Bull was a big problem. In Tevinter, no one flirted the way Bull did, at least, not with Dorian. Therefore, Dorian's assumption that he was being flirted with was wrong and he needed to adjust his own feelings to match the way the world worked. Just thinking he was being stupid didn't lead into any solutions, though. The anxiety just buzzed around his head, feeding tiny Halward's critical shrieking. It took some effort, but Dorian was able to pin down a reasonable thought: He'd overreacted to Sera's comments, and then to the Bull’s initial hostility, so it followed that he was reading too much into the flirting as well. The Bull was probably just teasing him because he knew he could get a rise out of Dorian. The best response was clearly to ignore him and maintain a professional relationship. 

That was a great plan that Dorian could totally stick to. 

Keeping the Bull at a distance would make him lose interest in needling Dorian, and if he backed off a bit, Dorian would stop having terrible ideas, like grabbing his stupid horns and kissing him silly. Dorian remembered the pressure of the Bull leaning over him, eye bright and strangely gentle in his broad, scarred face. He grabbed a pillow and screamed very quietly into it.

“Work not go so well?” Dagna wandered in with a steaming cup of coffee. The smell reminded him he hadn’t eaten since before rehearsal started. He took the pillow off his face and smoothed his moustache mournfully. 

“Work was great, not all of my coworkers are.” She nodded and patted his knee in a consoling way.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Dagna, isn’t it like….” He looked at the clock on the windowsill, but it was still spinning backwards and no help at all, “9 PM?” he ventured.

“It’s always time for coffee," she informed him solemnly and went to pour a second cup. “Coffee solves everything.”

She handed him a mug decorated with a sparkly crown and the words “self-rescuing princess” and a plate of leftover pizza, then opened her laptop in front of them. “And so does watching the Mythbusters blow stuff up.” Dorian wasn’t about to argue. Was sela petrae and drakestone as explosive a combination as urban myth claimed? This was important information.

He put stupid giant harp players out of his mind and settled in under the blanket she produced from somewhere. Tomorrow he’d have to go buy his own, and food, and probably clothes… he only had enough for a couple days. Bull and his flirting and his puns weren’t the most important thing right now. Really, he had bigger problems to deal with.

In the morning, he went shopping.

It didn’t seem like a big deal at first, tripping on the cracked stoop and waiting at the bus stop with his list up on his phone. He’d stick with the essentials until he got his first paycheck at the end of the month, which was luckily just a week away. He’d been skimping on just about everything since he’d left Teveinter, using his own modest savings account and not his father’s credit cards. He didn’t want to give Halward a way to track him or a reason to think he still had any control over Dorian. He had a decent amount, if he kept up the way he had been-- cheap sandwiches, gas-station coffees—and he didn’t have to worry about paying for motels or buying bus or train tickets any more. He’d worked out his budget and figured he could put the money he was saving on not traveling towards real food, his own pillow, and maybe a book or two.

The pillow was easy, and cheap, at a large super store chain that didn’t exist in Tevinter. They also sold clothes, so Dorian swallowed his pride and bought some cheap tee-shirts and a pair of jeans that fit… adequately. He’d fix his wardrobe when he had money to spare. For now, he was just glad they weren’t plaideweave. He wandered around for a while, picking up towels-- he hadn’t even thought of that—and found himself in an aisle of freezers. This store was ridiculous. There was nothing like this in Tevinter. At least, not the parts of Tevinter he’d ever been to. Everything the Pavus family had frequented had the word “boutique” somewhere in its name or description. A store that sold literally everything, in all one place… he wasn’t sure if it was brilliant or terrifying.

Accepting his fate, he grabbed some frozen pizzas and fruit on his way towards the finally-visible exit. Waiting in line, he thumbed through the tabloids and avoided eye-contact with the other shoppers. _Celene!_ , one of the biggest gossip rags in the South, was reporting on the latest fashions from Halamshiral, and had a section on the most glamorous parties of the year—from all over Thedas. He flipped to that page and noticed his father’s name. Dorian recognized that particular party. It had been an anniversary, one of Halward’s compositions? In any case, Dorian had left early, and thought his father had spent far too much money on the evening. Well, perhaps not, if it was garnering attention even in Ferelden. Luckily, there were no pictures of Dorian, or even much mention of the party beyond a couple of photos. He wasn’t likely to be recognized in the street or anything. With a final sigh over the clothes that could have been his, he checked out and found his way through the vast parking lot to the bus stop.

Back at the apartment, unpacking was quick and easy. He only had one bag of clothing, after all. He folded his shirts- all five of them, besides the one he was wearing, and hung up his jacket, smoothing the expensive fabric. His room looked bare, open, though it wasn’t large. Maybe Dagna would tell him where he could find things for the walls, or maybe a bookshelf…

Books. Of all the things he’d left behind, his mother's library was probably what he’d miss most. There were times when he’d spent days in rooms full of books and empty of people. He liked being able to read about the world without having to deal with everyone else in it.

Dagna was at class, and the little apartment felt a bit empty without her. Dorian was a bit surprised that he didn’t feel like basking in the solitude for longer. In Tevinter, he usually avoided people who weren’t in his small friend group-- mostly Felix, he admitted to himself. But Ferelden was making him feel lonely. Well, with Felix gone, he would have been lonely in Tevinter, too. He rubbed at the violin charm Felix had made for him when he’d left for school. That had probably been the beginning of the end really, when he'd left and Felix stayed behind for experimental treatments. Maybe they’d helped early on. But by the time Dorian had finished his degree and was working full time with Alexius, on track for the Conservatory, Felix seemed weaker every day when Dorian went to see him. He’d tried, he really had, to be enough for both of them, to live Felix’s dreams as well as his own; to live up to Alexius’s expectations as well as Halward’s. 

But while he drank himself stupid in Halward’s library, the rest of Tevinter had “celebrated” Felix’s life, giving Alexius condolences not for the loss of his son, but of his son’s potential. They were sorry that his investment, in his education, in his medicine, hadn’t paid off. Not one of them knew what had really been lost. Dorian had promised Felix, the _real_ Felix, that at least one of them would get the life they wanted.

He’d left that night, still slightly drunk, with only one bag and his violin. He’d taken some jewelry, with the vague idea of pawning them if he needed the money. Thepieces were still in a zippered pocket of his duffle bag, and he took them out, running his fingers along the delicate chains of the gold necklaces. He kept the small studs in his ears, but closed the bag back up, suddenly restless. The apartment felt oppressively empty and quiet, even with one of Dagna’s machines clicking rhythmically in the kitchen. Dorian left quickly, locking the door behind him.

He wandered for a while, watching the people and getting lost in the winding street. Outside, the air didn’t press down as much as it had in his room, but he was still lonely. He seemed to be the only person out by himself. Not everyone was in couples like a sad montage in a romantic comedy, but they did all seem to have friends. He allowed himself to indulge in some picturesque moping and found a bench under a tree where he could gaze sadly into the sunset. 

As great as Dorian was sure he looked, it wasn’t really an activity that he could sustain for very long. He got bored after just a few minutes, and decided that rather than continue to wallow, and fall deeper into the melancholy and self-recrimination he could feel looming, he would find a cheap place to get dinner, or maybe an antique shop to get lost in. If his wandering wasn’t completely aimless, he was sure he could distract himself somehow.

He found his distraction rather quickly, all things considered. It was nestled in a stubby alley just outside of the old alienage, with a green door decorated with spiraling whorls of daisies, and a sign that swung gently above the sidewalk. Curling letters in cheerful yellow script spelled out _Vallas and Lin, Booksellers_. Dorian pushed open the door, ringing the little bell above it. “Be out in a minute!” Someone called from the back, but he was already at the shelves, running his fingers happily over the spines of the books.

Dorian had always loved bookstores, especially the small ones, run by people who were just as interested in their books as he was, who could tell him which ones they had that fit his needs. He was fairly sure that bookstores in Skyhold, or anywhere in Ferelden really, wouldn’t have the treaties on Tevinter history or extensive collections of ancient grimoires that he’d had access to at home, but Dorian could live without stumbling across blood magic rituals in his time magic theory. The décor of Vallas and Lin was much brighter than anything comparable in Tevinter, more soft colors, potted plants and chairs near wide windows. The front was deceptively tiny, and the store seemed wrap partway around a small garden. Cuttings from the garden sat in vases next to potted plants on shelves and windowsills not occupied by books, giving the whole space a sense of being outdoors.

Dorian pulled down a few books at random, and settled in a comfy chair that seemed perfectly positioned to catch the last rays of light. He leafed through _Andraste Through the Ages, Images of Faith and Power_ , which turned out to be brilliantly illustrated as well as a good source of the Fereldan view of Andraste, which was predictably different than the one taught in Tevinter. It had images of frescoes and stained glass windows from nearly every Age, and he got caught up in a section that discussed a modern theory that Andraste may have been a mage. Dorian kept reading as the light faded and small magic orbs began to glow, along with strings of twinkling lights wrapped around the banister of a spiral staircase that led to… more books. Dorian hadn’t even noticed the second floor when he came in. This place was probably bigger than his whole apartment.

It was fully dark before anyone actually appeared out of the back. An elf popped her head over the balcony and looked startled to see him. With a worried squeak, she hurried down the spiral stairs and almost tripped on the last two. Dorian got up quickly, worried she was hurt, but she skittered nervously over, apparently unharmed. “Sorry! So sorry! I lost track of time, and I was sure you must have left…” She looked at Dorian’s small pile of books. “Can I help you find anything? I mean, you’ve already found some things…” she trailed off and they stared awkwardly at each other for a minute. “Umm, I’m Merrill," she said eventually, and held out a random book.

Dorian probably spent too long talking to Merrill but each topic just lead into another. The magelights in the store were hers, and they spent the first twenty minutes of their acquaintance discussing the benefits of energy magic as opposed to spirit magic in everyday work (Dorian was more experienced with energy and felt it was a more logical light source, but Merrill had good points about its unpredictability when combined with mundane wiring) and that led into a deep discussion of Tevinter magic and its differences with Fereldan attitudes and the added twist of ancient Elvhan ideas that she tried to use as much as possible. Dorian hadn’t been looking for someone to talk history or theory with, but she simply refused to be judgmental of the peculiarities of his education. For his part, Dorian actively tamped down on tiny Halward dismissing her as an inferior elf, and made even more of an effort to listen to her and give her opinions equal weight to those he had listen to in Tevinter.

They migrated briefly up to the back for tea, and Dorian had a brief moment of disorientation as he entered a magician's laboratory that even his father would have been envious of. Windowless and isolated like a darkroom, the only illumination was from glowing red glyphs of protection and misdirection. He looked just long enough to ascertain that they only looked like blood magic. Merrill handwaved them as “habit, not that I’ve got anything to hide” and explained that the light was better for some of the older and more sensitive texts that she restored as a side business and hobby. She handed him a steaming cup of tea, and their conversation turned more generally towards books and authors, which lasted them another hour.

If she’d been slightly more Tevinter, or slightly less… elfy, Dorian wasn’t sure he’d have been comfortable. But she approached everything, from fantasy books to magical theory, differently from anyone in Tevinter, and was much more open about magic than anyone else he’d met in Ferelden. She reminded Dorian of some of his more liberal classmates in university, who’d talked quietly about their radical ideas for social change and the use of magic, people he’d never associated with but always wished he had. Dorian felt a bit like he was making up for that cowardice now, exploring those ideas in a safe way, far from the danger of his father’s disapproval. He figured that regardless, deserting his responsibilities and vanishing into Ferelden would be higher on Halward’s list of disgraces than discussing the equality of all species with an elf in a bookstore. As always, the indignant sputtering of his constant companion tiny Halward just egged him on more.

When he left, it was with the Andraste book as well as two others on Fereldan history and a spider plant that Merrill insisted that he take. Its name was apparently Peter Parker and Dorian had sworn a solemn oath not to change it. The walk back to the apartment was quick and well-lit, but it was cold, and Dorian was quickly beginning to think he should just always have a jacket with him. After a brief battle with the door, Dorian made it inside, relishing the warmth of the apartment as well and the smells of Dagna’s cooking.

She was rummaging around in a bottom cabinet when he came into the kitchen, and he gave the stir-fry on the stove—mostly mushroom, he noticed—a shake. She emerged with a triumphant grin and handed him a bottle of a dark, spicy sauce. He recognized it from the dwarven restaurants he’d been to (very fashionable in Qarinus) but couldn’t remember its name. He did know enough to stir some into the mushrooms as Dagna clambered onto a stool in front of the stove.

“Are you any good at cooking?” She asked as she handed Dorian a beer. “It would be a ton easier, since this stove is unnecessarily tall.”

“Nothing practical,” he said regretfully. “I watched my parents’ chef sometimes, but it was more pretentious than Orlais. If you want your ramen to look like it costs eighty sovereigns a plate, I’m the one to do it, but you’d have to cook the noodles yourself, probably.”

Dagna didn’t look too disappointed. She plated the stir-fry and noodles, apparently having made enough for them both. “I guess that’s just one more thing for you to learn.” This was a segue into a long list of all the other things. As they ate in the living room, Dorian learned the location of the best laundromat (next to Dennett’s garage), the schedule of the garbage trucks (unreliable, but probably Tuesdays), the cheapest takeout restaurants (the Deep Fried Roads for dwarven food, the Prancing Princess for Fereldan, and Marathari’s for elven) and the best bookshops (which quickly devolved into a debate on the merits of electric over magical lighting when Dorian mentioned Vallas and Lin). Dorian washed the dishes, determined not to be a burden, and had a small adventure hunting through the lower cabinets for the place where Dagna kept them. He read until his eyes hurt—he should really look for a place to buy glasses-- and fell asleep on the couch to the sounds of Doctor Who fighting darkspawn on a moon somewhere.

\---

Dorian fell into a comfortable routine after a week or so. He spent his mornings jogging, his route coinciding fairly often with an imposing woman with a large Mabari. Trevelyan invited him to her yoga/martial arts studio after three days of matching schedules, which suited him just fine. He had a brief crisis when he realized she was a mage, and did his best to realign his perception of Ferelden. It was clearly not as backwards and oppressive as Tevinter propaganda claimed. He and Trevelyan sparred occasionally, but Dorian found himself enjoying yoga immensely. It was only partially because Cullen, the trumpet player from the SSO, turned up occasionally in flattering yoga pants to stumble his way through conversations with Trevelyan. The man was hilariously awful and both flirting and yoga, but his genuine affection for her massive dog was clearly a point in his favor. Dorian wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at either of them when the other wasn’t looking. It was fun while he had no romantic prospects of his own.

Trevelyan’s took up most of his mornings, and there were rehearsals four or five afternoons a week. He spent the others with Dagna or Merrill, and occasionally both, lounging in Vallas and Lin, dedicating himself to reading though the entire store. Merill started giving him an employee discount the second time he helped someone find a book. The first time he chased someone out for asking about that awful Qunari romance story ( _Something Something Shades of Gray_ ) she laughed and gave him a key to her back room so that he could avoid the stupider customers. He started buying her teas to make up for the money he was clearly losing her. She had great history books though, so he swallowed his guilt and bought too many of them. He was a true martyr.

Rehearsals became both smoother and more intense as they approached a performance date. His overtures of civility towards Sera payed off, and he never found lizards in his bag the way Solas did the day after he said something rude in ancient Elvhan. Keeping the Bull at arm's length was difficult, but mostly successful for the first week. Vivienne continued to earn his adoration, and he began to mesh into the the social life of the SSO.

Mostly this meant he would go out for drinks after rehearsal. Most often he spent evenings with Vivienne, though on full orchestra days, Cadash and her cohort usually swept him along. Vivienne and her partner owned a wine bar, and Dorian found himself liking Bastien despite his initial nervousness around the politician. Dorian could see how Vivienne and Bastien were comfortable in upper levels of politics, which seemed just as slippery in Fereldan as in Tevinter, just with less magic. Regardless, Dorian did his best to like him, for Vivienne’s sake. He found it surprisingly easy. Rightly described as a power couple, the two of them filled Dorian’s need for cultured snark and celebrity gossip. Names that just barely filtered into the Tevinter gossip mill featured prominently in their conversations, and Dorian found himself knowing far more about the personal lives of Fereldan strangers than he’d ever expect to. There was a surprising amount of credence to the rumors that the Fereldan president's husband was not as golden as his hair or illustrious name would suggest. Halward would have killed for the information those two giggled about over wine. Perhaps he had, which was a thought that kept Dorian quiet for the rest of the night.

After a couple nights in her understated, glamorous realm, Vivienne wore Dorian down and talked him into a shopping trip. She insisted on pulling strings and calling favors, and then on paying for everything. “I rather like feeling like a fairy godmother, dear,” she told him. Dorian quietly counted the cost and swore to himself that he’d pay her back somehow. Maybe a donation to Bastien’s reelection fund, or just a series of extravagant dinners once he worked out a budget.

Other evenings, the ones not filled with books, he usually wound up at the Herald. Dagna loved it there (Isabela the bartender giving her free drinks probably helped), and he was certain to find a few members of the SSO there on any given night. He and Dagna were quickly absorbed into their group—she hit it off with Harding and Bull alarmingly fast, in Dorian’s opinion.

Ten minutes after he’d introduced them, he’d found the three of them plus Krem (permanently draped over Harding) and Cole the piccolo kid in a corner on the top floor. Dagna was demonstrating the “pocket artillery” that she’d brought home from the Underforge that day. She’d told Dorian that it needed calibration, but it seemed to be decimating beer bottles faster than the group could empty them. When Dorian expressed his concern, Cole told him that Cabot, Isabella’s boss, had okayed it. “Sacrifices for science,” he told Dorian, “And the delivery girl thinks Cabot is cute.” Harding and Dagna had turned identical unsettling smiles on him and giggled “mayheeeeem.”

Dorian grabbed an unobliterated beer and sat down to watch. In answer to his questioning look, Cole passed over an impressive fake ID with a placid smile. "Varric thinks I'm safer where he can keep an eye on me." Dorian didn't see him touch any alcohol except to clean it up, so he took the kid at his word.

Sera popped up—had she climbed over the railing? And when Dorian bet that he could predict the splatter of the next one, they formed a competitive truce. She started buying him drinks when he proved that igniting the fuse with magic gave the tiny cannon a noticeable increase in power, and the two of them spent the evening forgetting that they’d been on less than perfect terms before. Her accent got thicker while Dorian’s Common got slower, and by the end of the night they were just pointing at things and laughing. The next morning, Dorian would go through a list of good things to remind him that his hangover wasn’t the end of the world, and officially smoothing things over with Sera was near the top.

Despite Dorian's best efforts, the Iron Bull had quickly become a fixture in his life. He offered rides, advice, an unnecessary amount of puns, and seemed to have a new way to fluster Dorian every time he turned around. At the beginning of Dorian’s fifth rehearsal, Bull appeared with a gold eyepatch, a black tee-shirt that was really not much better than no shirt, in Dorian's opinion, and _the pants_. The terrible plaideweave pants were back in Dorian’s life and he cringed every time he saw them out of the corner of his eye. He spent most of the rehearsal staring straight ahead, and telling himself that it was the pants he was avoiding and not the way Bull’s shirt left so little to the imagination.

He did his best, but whenever Bull caught his eye and smiled, Dorian’s throat went dry and it seemed like Bull was beaming butterflies directly into his stomach like some sort of apocalyptic insect ray. Dorian soon accepted his fate. These were not the symptoms of some mysterious Fereldan disease, but of a massive, terrible crush.

Bull hadn't helped. In addition to being _annoyingly_ attractive, he was just plain nice. He had a way of saying exactly the right thing to shut down any nasty comments Halward was feeding into Dorian's mind. If Dorian thought about how his father considered all Qunari to be savage and cruel, Bull would ask Cullen about his new mabari puppy and tell him about good dog parks. On days when Dorian was sure he'd made a mistake coming to Fereldan, Bull would invite him to the Herald for drinks with the Chargers. Dorian knew he was falling into a familiar trap, dangerously close to idealizing Bull beyond anything reasonable, but it was hard not to when Bull was genuinely one of the kindest people Dorian knew.

The Bull was also far more attainable than any of the boys Dorian had fallen for, even than the ones he’d slept with, in a way. The thrill of secret trysts and forbidden love had worn off long ago, and Dorian would never admit it, but these days, a large number of his fantasies included walking down the street holding his boyfriend’s hand, or moving in with someone, or falling in love and living his life with the man he loved. 

So, Dorian told himself, if the Iron Bull featured in prominently in any of his daydreams, whether they were sexual in nature or just stupidly romantic fluff, then it was simply a matter of proximity. Bull was the first man to show open, unashamed interest in Dorian. It was only reasonable that he latch on to him this way. And if he had completely unreasonable daydreams about brunches and bouquets of flowers, well, it’s not like anyone could read his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIVE!  
> It's a long one.
> 
> Cameos include my own spider plant (tragically lost in the great dorm exodus of June 2015, RIP Peter) and pocket artillery that ACTUALLY EXISTS IN THE REAL WORLD (though Dagna's version is better)


	7. Nine O'Clock on a Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We spend an evening out with the Iron Bull, ft. games of skill and chance, Krem's balls of steel, and _feelings_.

Cole leaned forward from the back seat and tapped on Bull’s shoulder. “Put your seatbelt on.” Bull and Cadash both admonished from the front. Cole did so without complaint, but Sera stuck her tongue out at them. They headed out across the causeway into the city proper, Vivienne driving behind them with Dorian shivering in the passenger seat of her sleek silver convertible. Vivienne only put the top up for weather or Bastien.

Bull turned at the end of the bridge, towards the Herald, and Vivienne continued straight. Sera gave them a mocking princess wave as they passed. Dorian flipped the bird in response, but Vivienne ignored her with practiced serenity. “In another world,” Sera mused as she pulled a flask out of her shirt, “I’d love to get that stick out of her arse and replace it with something else.” She giggled and gesticulated in case anyone had missed her meaning. No one had. Bull glared at her in the rear-view mirror until she pouted and tucked the flask back into her bra. “Right, right, no drinks in the mom-mobile.” She blew a raspberry at him. “Party pooper.”

“The Iron Bull gets pulled over much more often than anyone else I’ve ridden with,” Cole observed mildly. “The police must think the minivan is mask for illegal activities.”

“That must be it,” Bull agreed. “So let’s not give them any more reason.” Harding turned up the music, but Cole wasn’t done.

He tapped Bull on the shoulder again. “The Iron Bull, do you like Dorian?”

Bull avoided the question by double checking the oncoming traffic before he turned. A strategic instinct, but a tactical mistake this time around. “Yeah Bull, do you _liiike_ him? Like, _like_ -like him?” Sera still hadn’t put on her seatbelt, and she took the headrest off of Cadash’s seat to lean in over it. She put her hands on the dwarf’s head and they turned matching smiles of evil glee on their poor hapless friend. There was no way Bull was getting out of this with his dignity intact.

Was it worth it to try to change the topic? About a thirty percent chance it would work… worth a shot. “Honestly, I think your love life is much more interesting, Cadash. What’s going on with you and Blackwall? _And_ Josephine?” He almost got away with it. Cadash’s face turned bright red and she began to sputter her own defenses, but Sera and Cole were both still focused on him.

“He likes you, I think.” Cole was absently braiding his bangs, from what Bull could see of his face, he was relaxed, smiling faintly. Bull couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew they would be glittering behind his shaggy hair, observing everything, watching, cataloging, _assuming_. And correctly too. It was always pretty creepy. Right now it was also a pain in Bull’s ass. “He smiles when other people tell you your jokes are awful. He smiles when he tells you your jokes are awful.” Bull could feel his cheeks growing warmer. He was a pro at lewd, crude, and sexually inappropriate, but he didn’t blush over Cassandra’s novels because of the smut. Feelings was more difficult territory, and Dorian’s tiny smiles (which he kept an eye out for and was maybe categorizing) definitely gave him feelings.

Sera was grinning manically. Not even bothering to say anything, just watching Bull’s face. She laced her fingers under her chin and fluttered her eyelashes. Cole wasn’t done. “He used to think you were too big to play the harp. He still thinks you’re big but he also thinks you can do just about anything you want to.”

Cadash had recovered enough to leer at Bull. “Anything Bull wants to do _to_ him, you mean?” This was safer ground. He could trade innuendoes with Sera and Cadash for hours and never bat an eye.

“No,” _Vashedan_ , Cole was going for the jugular today. He had folded himself up cross-legged on the back seat, his head tilted forward to hide the smirk Bull just knew was there. “Dorian thinks the Iron Bull can do anything he wants to, anything he sets his mind to, anything in the world, because he thinks the Iron Bull is brave and smart and probably a superhero.” Bull sputtered a bit, embarrassed by the possibility of Dorian thinking so highly of him. Sera and Cadash laughed at his blush.

“Nah, if he think’s anyone’s a superhero, it’s Vivienne.” Cadash had caught her breath long enough to speak. Sera had moved on from howling with laughter to making kissy faces and sniggering. “He’d love to be her sidekick, I bet. And I don’t even mean anything by that.” 

“Dorian thinks Vivienne is actually a queen,” Cole informed them. “And that Josephine is a sweetheart, and that Sera is much more fun than he’d thought. And he’s very sure that the Iron Bull is a superhero, with a hidden past or a dark secret, because otherwise he’s too good to be true.” 

“How’d you know that, then?” asked Sera, “You do your creepy-shit mind-reading trick on him?” 

“No,” Cole unbraided his bangs, his deadpan expression restored. “He was drunk at the Herald and told me.” Sera began to interrogate the kid on everything Dorian had divulged in his unwise confessional. Seriously, the kid would blackmail or prank you with sensitive knowledge at the most embarrassing times—Bull figured he should warn Dorian that he was nowhere near as harmless as he appeared. Everyone smart in the SSO did their best to stay on Cole’s good side. Bull was pretty sure the kid would’ve been some sort of spy if he wasn’t so good at the piccolo (of all weirdly small instruments. Who invented those? Not anyone who cared about Qunari.) 

Sera pulled Bull back into the conversation with a comment about sparkly mage-butts. It wasn’t quite what he thought. “It’s getting hard to read my music!” She complained. “The sun comes through the window and bounces off his shiny head right into my eyes!” She flopped dramatically across Cole’s lap, and he began to braid her hair as well. 

“Please but your seatbelt on, Sera,” Bull said to no avail. 

“Solas is a very qualified musician, Sera. The SSO is lucky to have him.” Cadash repeated the familiar lecture. “He could have been a soloist anywhere else, but he offered to help us improve our string section, _as you well know_ , since he was on the audition board that _hired_ you. _And_ ,” this was Cadash’s favorite thing about Solas, “he helps us get scores from the Elvhan Historical Society of Thedas, which is _tremendous_.” Cadash was a bit of a history nerd, and the connection Solas used to get the SSO unique music made her the happiest dwarf ever. “So he can be as bald as he wants, I don’t care. He gets me music, he can even wear shirts as bad as Bull’s.” 

Bull made the token protestation. He did think bright blue was a good color on him, anyways. Brought out his eye. 

Sera was making faces at Cadash and blowing raspberries. “Cole, if I bought Solas a hat, for Wintersend or something, do you think he’d wear it?” 

“No, he wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t think it was funny, either.” Cole smiled dreamily. “I would. You should do it.” 

“No, Sera!” Cadash glared at them both. “No upsetting the very valuable asset!” 

“Oh, well. I could find you some sunglasses, Sera. What about the kind that looks like mirrors?” 

Bull dropped the others off in front of the Herald and went to park his van a little ways away. He tried to enjoy the walk to the bar, the streets fairly empty in the early evening. The few people out gave him a fairly wide berth, and some suspicious looks. Qunari weren’t very common in Ferelden, and the stereotypes followed him, even though “ensemble harpist” was pretty far from “violent criminal” as far as a job description. And even if he hadn’t always been a law-abiding citizen, they didn’t know that! The suspicion grated on him, making him glance into alleyways and up to rooftops, on edge. He couldn’t see anyone following him, but it never hurt to be careful. 

Bull was relived to reach the Herald. It was quiet too, but he could hear the Chargers talking and laughing upstairs. Since Bull had an SSO performance coming up, they weren’t playing together for the next week, but they did still congregate for drinks. 

He headed to the bar before going upstairs. Cole and Cadash were playing a serious-looking game of hangman, and Sera was sitting on the counter, chatting with Maryden and Isabela. He shared a questioning glance with the bartender as he came over, but she didn’t look worried. Maryden was leaning into Sera’s space and they were both laughing, though not touching. They must have worked out whatever they were fighting about, Bull figured. Personally, he thought it would be exhausting to have relationship with that much conflict. They were always fighting, or broken up and pining, or in a honeymoon phase after getting back together. 

But he’d been new to healthy relationships once, too, and he knew from personal experience that no one appreciated being told their way of life was hurting them. He kept an eye on both of them, but tried not to interfere. Maryden waved cheerfully and offered him some of her whisky. Bull got a beer instead, and all three women smirked at his weakness. 

He wasn’t too concerned. “I’ve written a new song!” Maryden told him, practically bouncing with excitement. Bull observed the ukulele in her hand with some trepidation. It was right up there with the piccolo on his list of unnecessarily small instruments, and Maryden’s version of indie-pop was not his favorite. She didn’t seem to be about to serenade him, though. 

“Think you’ve struck gold again?” Isabela looked up from Cadash’s sad attempts to guess Cole’s word (Bull was pretty sure it was “circular”). “What I mean is, is it about Sera?” 

Maryden looked offened. “I’ve written other popular songs!” 

“None that the local radio plays three times a day,” Bull interjected, enjoying her indignant gesticulating. Maybe she’d smack the ukulele on the bar and have to get a real guitar. Nah, who was he kidding, she’d find a sitar, or a lute or some shit next. 

Isabela produced a pack of cards from… somewhere and dealt a hand of Wicked Grace. Sera groaned, “Again? You only like this game because you win every time.” 

“Not every time. You saw me lose to that delightful conductor of yours last week.” She shuffled her hand and smirked evilly. “You’re just my warm up round, kitten. The heavy hitters come in later. Now ante up.” 

“I thought your gambling ring got closed down,” Maryden frowned at her cards, “wasn’t that cop in here again the other night?” 

“Who, Man Hands? No, she doesn’t even know about the back room. She’s after me for my CDs.” 

“Your _pirated_ CDs,” Maryden grouched. 

“Guilty as charged. Or not charged, rather. And I don’t know why you’re so sore. I’d never steal your music.” Isabela laid a hand on her arm and looked into her eyes. Bull snorted. 

"Hands off my girl!” Sera swatted at her with her cards, showing everyone her hand. It was awful. 

Cole drew a final boot on the little Cadash he’d been doodling and grabbed another napkin off the bar. “Give me a minute to come up with a good word,” the dwarf griped at him, and laboriously counted off letters on her fingers, checking them against the spaces she drew on the napkin. 

She pushed it triumphantly at Cole. “Trombone," he declared. 

“Isabela, get me a screwdriver.” 

Bull stayed at the Herald for a few hours, nursing sodas after he finished his beer. Sera kept him at the bar playing Wicked Grace until Isabela had to deal with actual customers, and Maryden left to set up the stage. She was very proud of being the celebrity emcee for the open mic night. He sat through Cole’s poetry (inexplicable), and a tearful rendition of an Andrastian folk song about a dog (very moving) before losing interest. 

By the time Maryden introduced the second waifish elf with a guitar, he was antsy and uncomfortable. The Herald was filling up, people crowding around the tables that had been set up on the dance floor. Watching the audience, Bull was able to put a name to the discomfort. He was the only Qunari in the room. The small Qunari population of Skyhold was one of the reasons he’d moved there of course, but sometimes it still threw him off. Leaving Cadash, Cole, and Sera at the bar, he slipped up the stairs to the Charger’s habitual table. 

He found Krem, and to his surprise, Dorian and Vivienne. Vivienne looked up from her glass of wine—Bull didn’t even know the Herald had a decent red—and greeted him with an elegant wave. “Bull, dear, would you settle something for us? These two are trying to tell me that belts are an intrinsic part of historical Tevinter fashion, and due for a revival in the fashion world. I’m trying to tell them that they’ve taken leave of their senses.” 

Bull pulled out the chair next to Dorian—it was the one closest to him, and had the most leg room—and considered the matter carefully. “Well ma’am, I’m fully in support of cultural authenticity. Did you know Qunari didn’t wear shirts until the beginning of the last age? I do my best preserve that honorable part of my tradition as well.” 

Dorian looked conflicted. “I don’t know if you being on our side means we’re right…” he traced a sigil onto his beer bottle, and frost bloomed from his fingertip. Bull tried not to stare. 

“It means _I’m_ right, dear.” She turned his bottle around to examine the spell. “Oh, that is clever! It’s not a frost spell at all, is it?” 

__“No, it’s more in the school of time and haste spells.” Dorian leaned forward, excited. “I came up with it myself—well, mostly. Felix helped a lot—it alters the movement of time around the molecules in a given area, slowing them in relation to everything around them. The slower movement produces less energy, you see, cooling the affected area quickly.” He shook the bottle and Bull could see some slush had formed in the bottom of it. “It’s not perfect of course, it has a tendency to freeze things solid as the range increases.” He and Vivienne launched into an impenetrable, rapid-fire discussion._ _

__Krem was looking overwhelmed. Bull could relate. He’d never seen Vivienne this animated. Or Dorian, for that matter. The Tevinter mage had produced a pen and notebook from somewhere, and he and Vivienne were both drawing circles and glyphs that Bull was vaguely familiar with as “magical.” Dorian’s accent deepened a touch as he spoke faster, and Bull found himself a bit mesmerized. This was a different side of Dorian, and an unexpected one. Bull wondered if Dorian missed talking about magic. It was probably a lot less common as conversation topic in Ferelden than in Tevinter._ _

__Well, he’d leave them to it. Krem took a surreptitious swig of Vivienne’s wine—Bull was surprised that she didn’t smite him immediately -- and turned to him. “Wanna see what your cat did to Rocky last night?”_ _

__“Obviously.” Bull took Krem’s phone, scrolling though the pictures of Ataashi, grey ball of perfect and furious fluff, attacking Rocky’s much-abused face. Krem reached stealthily for the wine again._ _

__Vivienne casually shocked Krem’s hand, causing him to squeak and smash the bottle into his face. He returned it to the table with a look more terrified than apologetic. She did not deign to notice him again. “Is that your cat, dear?” both mages had returned to the mundane world. Apparently the best way to break a mage-nerd bubble was to talk about cats. “Has she grown into her tail yet?”_ _

__Bull chuckled. “No, it’s still almost twice as long as the rest of her. She’s gotten better about knocking glasses and things over with it though.”_ _

__“You mean she just pushes them off the table on purpose.” Krem snorted._ _

__Vivienne looked scandalized. “You let her on the table? With your food? If you do that while she’s still a kitten, it will be impossible to break her of it when she’s an adult! It isn’t unreasonable to discipline cats, you know. My Victoria is very well behaved.”_ _

__“Too late for that, I think,” Krem said mournfully. “There was a mix-up in the cat factory, and Ataashi got all of your cat’s fur, and yours got anything in her that would listen to the word ‘no.’ I tried a spray bottle once, she didn’t even care.”_ _

__“Victoria is a pure-bred sphinx,” Vivienne told a lost-looking Dorian while Bull said, “That’s because Ataashi is actually a dragon.”_ _

__\---_ _

__Bull had a cat and Dorian was probably going to die. Finding the Bull attractive was fine, admiring him (without letting him know) was fine, but thinking the Bull was cute was a terrible idea. That way lay madness. Bull showed him at least six pictures of Ataashi, who was apparently Bull’s baby, the love of his life, the queen of his heart, and from what Dorian could tell, a regular little rage demon. He practically cooed over every picture. It wasn’t so bad at first, Dorian tried to tell himself, but he soon caught himself thinking that Bull’s enthusiasm was terribly sweet. Well. This was his life now, apparently._ _

__The problem arose after Bull ran out of pictures of just the cat. Dorian could nod along at Bull’s exclamations over her “tiny toe beans” and “supreme killer instinct” (said in the same saccharine, loving tone of voice) and allow himself a glow of childish happiness that Bull was sharing something so precious with him. But the first picture of Ataashi sitting primly on Bull’s horns was somehow also a selfie, _shirtless_. Dorian downed his beer, hoping he could blame his flush on the alcohol. _ _

__After a trip to the bar for more drinks, Dorian was holding Bull’s phone, looking at a picture of Ataashi sitting primly in the palm of the Qunari’s massive hands. He made an affirmative noise when Bull called her “regal,” but when Bull swiped to the next picture, he briefly covered Dorian’s hand with his own, and he was arrested by the feeling of their skin touching. Dorian was suddenly extremely aware of his knee pressing up against the Bull’s thigh, of how they were tucked in a corner, their backs to the wall, leaning together over the Bull’s phone, both holding it, in fact. He felt nervousness curling in his gut, the resurgences of the Maker-damned butterflies. The Bull was a warm, solid presence beside and above him, and he felt supported between Bull and the wall on his right. They were alone, Krem and Vivienne having drifted to another table when some of the other Chargers showed up. Rather more than buzzed on the Fereldan beer, Dorian gave into his weakness just a bit and leaned against the Bull’s side._ _

__A thought occurred to him that quickly soured the happy direction his thoughts were starting to take: A good two-thirds of his short-lived, less-than-romantic romantic encounters had begun just this way: alone in a dark corner of a no-name club, drunk off his ass, latching onto anything that felt like normalcy. His pulse was racing, and he could hear Halward tutting behind the thumping bass and Bull’s cooing over Ataashi. He was just putting himself in the same situations as ever, playing the same dangerous, zero-sum game. Sure, the Iron Bull was a co-worker, but when had that ever stopped someone like him? He’d slept with classmates, his own father’s coworkers, even a professor one time… this was no different than any other night in a quiet corner of a club._ _

__Dorian tried to drown him out with another swallow of beer, but fell back on childish arguments. The Bull was _nothing _like the men he’d slept with in Tevinter. For one, he was actually a friend. Dorian was fairly sure that Bull even respected him. Dorian’s own respect of Bull was also a factor—he’d rarely experienced anything but lust and mutual disdain between partners. He wasn’t sure what hang-ups other men had brought to the table, but he’d always found himself sure that he disliked them as people, that being willing to skulk in the dark with him lessened their worth.___ _

____The Iron Bull was incapable of skulking. He filled a room with his presence, warm and brash, and always accepting. Bull was crude jokes and booming laughter, unapologetic but capable of being careful, and he wasn’t any different sitting alone in a dark corner. He’d made no real propositions since that first ride home. Dorian was beginning to see that had been a joke as well, a friendly one, not a truly sexual one. The Bull had eight lewd jokes for each of his friends. If Dorian was sitting next to him in a dark corner, it’s because it was a good place for friends to talk about cute pets and good recipes. It wasn’t a mask for anything shameful because there was nothing shameful in his friendship with Bull. He repeated this idea to himself a few times. His thoughts might be a bit shameful, but they were his own, and his urges didn’t control his actions. If Dorian could keep his crush under wraps until it faded, there would be absolutely no shadow over their companionship._ _ _ _

____Bull touched Dorian carefully on the forearm, startling him out of the spiraling thoughts. Dorian stared at the Qunari’s hand for a moment. It was gently placed, resting lightly above his wrist in a way he could tell was meant to be unthreatening. His own fingers were clenched tightly around the phone, which had faded to black while he was arguing with the ghost of Halward. He could feel the tension that had gripped his body, causing his shoulders to hunch forward and his legs to tuck up under his chair. Not an attractive position. His heart was hammering. Dorian tried to force his body to relax, and turned to look at the Iron Bull, unsure what sort of reaction he could expect to his little panic._ _ _ _

____The Bull’s one eye was soft and concerned, a match for his careful hand, not at all superior or disgusted. “Lost you for a minute there, ‘Vint. Is Ataashi really boring enough to put you to sleep?” He was a little tired, he thought. Dagna had brought home something to observe overnight and it had exploded around three in the morning, setting off the fire alarm. Bull was giving him an out, he realized. He was letting Dorian decide whether they would talk about his freak out. Another point against Halward, Dorian thought smugly. That was clearly respect. Dorian belatedly realized he should have responded verbally when Bull narrowed his eye—with worry? A small part of him asked hopefully-- and tapped Dorian firmly on the bicep._ _ _ _

____“Sorry,” he tried. His voice sounded awful, as if he hadn’t been pouring liquid down his throat all night. “I must be more tired than I thought.” It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have the energy to explain everything to Bull. He _definitely_ didn’t have the energy to deal with the Bull’s reaction, whatever it would be. Another point for the Qunari, Bull followed through on his unspoken promise and backed off, slipping his phone into the breast pocket of his terrible, terrible bright blue button up. Dorian was trained to appreciate high fashion and good tailoring, but he couldn’t deny that there was something… arresting… about the way the Bull’s arms strained the fabric of his sleeves. _Vishante kaffas_ , not only was Dorian drunk, he was starting to sound like Cassandra’s trashy novels. _ _ _ _

____The Bull didn’t seem to be offended. “I’m wiped too,” he told Dorian. It was clearly a lie and he gave it the skeptical side eye it deserved. It might have been the light, but he imagined that the Iron Bull colored slightly. “I mean, I’m on Stitches duty tonight,” he announced nonsensically. It took Dorian a moment to catch the change of topic. “Uh, he has class at ten tomorrow and has to get home earlyish. I do that sometimes.”_ _ _ _

____He hadn’t mentioned it before, but Dorian wasn’t going to argue. He wouldn’t keep Bull around to deal with his issues if the Qunari was reaching that much for an excuse to leave. “Krem wasn’t lying when he said you were a mother hen.”____

Bull shrugged cheerily. “Nope. You want a ride to Haven?” That was unexpected. If Bull wasn’t trying to get away from him, then maybe… Dorian floundered. Halward was still muddling his thoughts and making his hands shake slightly. Bull was still talking. “I’m not offering out of the goodness of my heart, though," he cautioned. “If you could help wrangle him, I won’t charge you for gas.” He grinned hugely, leaving Dorian fluttery and wondering if he should offer to pay back Vivienne for her ride to the club. 

Bull saw the panic jumping back and put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. He saw it coming and tensed at the contact, but it was a rather grounding gesture. He didn’t shake the Bull’s hand off. “I’m joking, Dorian. Don’t worry about the gas. I’m going that way anyways.” He left it unsaid, that Dorian was not being a burden, but it was heavily implied. Dorian nodded, not trusting his voice. He considered that if anyone was a nuisance in that moment it was Stitches, not him, and Bull didn’t consider his Chargers a burden. Hitching a ride wouldn’t be so bad. 

Bull lead him to a bench near the door, away from the main dance floor. “Stay here," he said, “Can you hold onto my car keys so Sera can’t take them to make me stay?” Dorian nodded silently, and Bull went back upstairs. He payed loose attention to the open mic act on the stage, two dwarves doing some sort of standup comedy routine, but wasn’t able to hear most of it very well. The keys to Bull’s car felt heavy in the pocket of his jacket. He half-wished he hadn’t agreed to hold them. If he didn’t have to give them back to Bull, he would have left already and gone to find a bus. It was cold, and he wasn’t quite sure of the best route to take back to Haven, but he’d be able to figure it out. But he couldn’t just bolt with Bull’s keys, so he stayed put. 

____He smiled tiredly at Vivienne when she glided into his line of vision._ _ _ _

____“Are you feeling alright, dear?” She pressed a cool hand to his forehead like his nanny checking for a fever. “You look a bit pale.” Her perfume made him feel a bit light headed, but he shook his head._ _ _ _

____“I’m fine," he said quietly when she pursed her lips at him._ _ _ _

____“The Iron Bull says he’s taking you home, but if you don’t want to go with him, I’m happy to take you.” She looked more concerned than Dorian thought was warranted. He thought about Vivienne in his cramped little apartment, not saying anything but continuing to worry. She would judge his home and lack of money, and however kindly it would be meant, she’d find him wanting somehow. He didn’t want to be one of her charity cases._ _ _ _

____“I’m just tired, really. And Bull’s going that way anyways.” He saw Bull coming down the stairs with Dalish, herding Stitches in front of them. The med student looked a bit wobbly, so Dorian figured it was probably good that Bull was taking him home._ _ _ _

____Vivienne pulled Bull aside when the three got to the door, Stitches sliding onto the bench next to Dorian. He tried to listen to their conversation—it looked rather intense—but the noise around him was still a bit overwhelming, and it was hard to focus on any one thing for more than a minute or two. He checked his phone, surprised to see it wasn’t even nine. He felt exhausted._ _ _ _

____Bull returned and Dalish pulled Stitches to his feet. He leaned on her as they headed out the door, Dorian and Bull following quietly behind them._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update? INCONCEIVABLE!  
> As always, poor Dorian :( But he's got a lot of friends looking out for him now!  
> Also as always, I lay offerings at the feet of Uniqueinalltheworld. Praise her.
> 
> Aatashi the dragon-cat is an important character, and possibly one of my favorites (competitors are ALL OF THEM).
> 
> edit: Title? haha whats that


	8. Drowing in Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull's evening continues, he learns a bit about Tevinter, and that jumps to some conclusions. Also, cats!

Bull wasn’t sure what had happened in the Herald. He knew what an anxiety attack looked like, of course, he’d had plenty of experience dealing with those from all angles. He just couldn’t think of what had triggered it. He felt awful—Dorian had gone from laughing over Ataashi, leaning into Bull in a very… companionable way— to terrified and small, curling in on himself physically while Bull felt his pulse accelerating. And as worried as he was about Dorian, he couldn’t stop thinking that maybe he’d done something to trigger it. It felt self-centered to be worrying about himself, but he couldn’t get it off his mind that he’d hurt Dorian without meaning to. He’d have to get Dorian to talk about it, sooner rather than later, just so he knew what to avoid.

He did the only thing he could think of: wait until Dorian looked able to walk and talk, and get him out of there. He wasn’t sure what it was like for Dorian, but he knew that had it been him, the music and lights, not to mention all the people, would have made everything worse.

Bull knew he was being unconvincing, saying he was tired, and the Stitches duty idea was not his best cover story, but he could make it work, and that was the important part. Dorian agreed to a ride without much protest, which made Bull think he’d done the right thing.

He left Dorian near the door, hoping that he’d stay close, even if he went outside. Bull felt a bit guilty when he went back to get Stitches. Was he using Dorian’s distress as a distraction from his own issues, or even as an excuse to spend time with him? Bull decided that he was not going to have any ulterior motives tonight. He was worried about Dorian, so he was going to do his best to take care of him.

Stitches came along easily when Bull told him the time, and Dalish tagged along as well. Everything was going according to plan until Vivienne swooped down on him.

“Iron Bull, what have you done to Dorian?” Her stony expression was terrifying. Even in her heels, Bull had to look down at her, but she still managed to loom very effectively.

She pinned him with an reproachful glare, and he could feel himself going on the defensive. “I didn’t do anything, Ma’am.” Honesty was the best policy, especially when she looked like an angry Tamassran. “He had an anxiety attack, I think. I’m taking him back to his place to chill out.”

“Good.” Her face did not soften. “Please understand that I am only asking out of concern for Dorian, not distrust of you.” For some reason, Bull wasn’t comforted. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Oh, yes, this was exactly the conversation he wanted to have right now. She continued to loom at him, eyes sharp and just shy of accusing. “Iron Bull, you might think that you’re being subtle, but you really aren’t. Not with this. You are an intelligent man, I don’t think I need to tell you that hurting him is a very bad idea.” She examined her nails, releasing him from her predator’s stare. “It might bear repeating, though, in light of his current distressed state.”

“Ma’am,” Bull felt like a kid taking his crush to a dance, promising to have them home by 10. “I swear that I have no intention of making moves of any kind on Dorian tonight.” He sighed. “You saw him, he’s completely out of it.”

She stared him down for a moment more. It felt like an Age. Finally, she seemed satisfied that her point was made. “We will continue this conversation at a later date, Iron Bull. Go take care of Dorian.” She dismissed him.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Bull had the sensation of barely escaping a life-threatening experience. He made his retreat.

With Dalish’s help, he got Stitches up and out the door. Dorian followed them, unsettlingly docile. He stared at the ground, his hands in his jacket pockets, silent even when Bull asked how he was doing. Feeling helpless, Bull stayed close to him. He was tempted to wrap an arm around the ‘Vint’s shoulders, but kept his hands to himself. He didn’t know how Dorian would react to that much unexpected touch.

The walk back to his van seemed to take an eternity. It wasn’t even eventful, just too quiet. And cold. Stitches and Dalish were off in their own little world, staggering only a bit. Dorian would have laughed with them any other night, but he just trudged along like he was in a trance. Bull spent the whole walk clenching and unclenching his hands—he wanted to hit something, or hug Dorian, just do something—but he didn’t know what would be welcome, or useful. He hated the feeling.

He bundled Stitches into the van with no problems, and Dalish clambered into the back next to him. Bull slid the door closed and saw that Dorian was standing near the front of the car. He still wasn’t talking, but he had stopped staring at the ground. He was staring at Bull instead, his expression strange. His forehead was scrunched and he had a slight frown, but he seemed contemplative instead of upset. Bull looked back, trying not to fidget or use any aggressive body language. Both things tended to happen when he was unsettled.

Dorian took a step towards him, into the area that Bull considered “personal space.” Not off-limits space, just… close. The smaller man tilted his head back to maintain eye contact, his shoulders less hunched than they’d been before. His expression hadn’t changed, and Bull noticed the tiny lines at the corners of Dorian’s eyes. Bull had been painfully aware of Dorian’s eyes for a long time now, but he hadn’t had the chance to examine them this closely before. Grey irises, black kohl, shimmering gold, Bull took a moment to drink in the closeness.

Dorian held out a hand, loosely closed, palm down. Bull startled at the movement and stared at it, completely confused by the gesture.

Dorian shook the hand slightly. “Your keys.” His voice was scratchy and soft. “I still have your keys.”

Oh. “Oh!” His keys. Right. “Uh, thanks. I forgot about those.” Bull rubbed the back of his neck.

Dorian sighed, and turned his hand over, offering them to Bull. He reached out gingerly, unusually nervous about touching Dorian’s hand. His hand, of all things! Bull took the keys, noticing that Dorian had clutched them so hard they had left indents in his palm. He tried not to stare, or allow the angry helpless feeling to well up again. It wouldn’t do any good, he knew, but if Bull ever learned who had taught Dorian to hurt himself rather than reach out to someone who could help him…

“Um… Did you unlock my van then? Or did I leave it open..?” Bull didn’t think he’d been that distracted earlier.

Dorian huffed out a little laugh, and Bull tried not to let his rush of relief show. “I unlocked it.” His hands were back in his pockets, but he seemed more relaxed. Maybe he was cold. Neither of them moved. Bull was staring at Dorian’s face again. His nose twitched a split second before Bull caught a scent of cigarette smoke. His lips were pressed tight and his teeth were beginning to chatter slightly. Bull was fascinated. “Fasta vass,” Dorian said suddenly. “I think my mustache is growing icicles.”

He spun around and climbed quickly into the front seat, slamming the door shut behind him. Dalish banged on the window, making Bull jump. “Get in, loser!” She shouted. “We’re fucking freezing!”

Bull gave her the finger and went to start the car.

Everyone perked up briefly once the heater kicked in. Stitches started singing top 40 songs, off key, making up the words when he didn’t know them. He had Dalish in hysterics in minutes, and even Dorian chuckled at his butchered versions. They left downtown, with its shops and clubs, and the streets emptied almost entirely. Bull took the opportunity to watch Dorian occasionally.

His tension had almost completely dissipated, and Bull’s sympathetic stress had reduced in turn. He was relaxed, focused on Dalish and Stitches in the back seat. Bull’s minivan was part of a line designed for Qunari drivers, and the seats tended to be deeper than humans found comfortable. Dorian had solved this by tucking his legs under him, both feet against the door. He leaned on the armrest, body twisted slightly to face Stitches and Dalish. Bull couldn’t imagine being comfortable in that position, but he wasn’t complaining. He hadn’t realized Dorian was so flexible. For that thought, Bull sentenced himself to a full minute of staring only at the road.

Beside him, Dorian laughed at Stitches’ impression of another Orlesian pop star. He shook his head and his hair brushed Bull’s shoulder. It was a long drive.

The conversation tapered off as first Stitches and then Dalish began to doze, leaning against each other. Paused at a red light, Bull angled the rear-view mirror to catch a peek of them and grinned. “If they’re still asleep when we get to Haven, I’m taking a picture of them," he told Dorian. “Look how cute they are!”

Dorian didn’t respond. He had curled up on the seat with his knees to his chest. It didn’t look very comfortable, but he was fast asleep, even snoring slightly. His makeup was a bit of a mess, really—he’d smudged eyeliner on his cheek somehow, and his mustache was starting to rumple—but Bull thought he looked…spellbinding. (And wasn’t that the cheesiest thing he’d thought lately.) 

Dorian awake was always on guard somehow, prepared to meet any form of observation or attack head on. Right now, on the seat of Bull’s car, he looked less like an elegant Tevinter with a comeback for every slight, and more like a lonely guy who couldn’t take his armor off.

He was holding his necklace in his hand again. Bull still couldn’t see what it was, but he could tell it was the same one. The chain was long enough to hide the pendant under his shirt, and was made of thin silver links. It was easy to miss most of the time, but Bull kept an eye out for it. It was obviously important to Dorian. The mage held it tightly, pressed against his chest like he was afraid to let it go.

What Bull wanted most in that moment was to wrap Dorian up in a giant blanket and never let him go. He wanted to feed him soup and cover him with fluffy pillows. He was totally screwed.

All three of his passengers woke up when Bull parked in front of Haven Apartments. Dalish stretched luxuriously, perhaps for Stitches’ benefit, but he was occupied with rubbing his eyes and moaning about his stomach.

Dorian cracked an eye open and regarded Stitches with disdain. “If you didn’t insist on drinking that poor excuse for a Tevinter malt, you’d feel better. Sun Blonde Vint indeed.” He unfolded himself gracefully. “The real distillery no longer distributes outside of the Imperium. Anything here is a sorry fake.”

Stitches groaned. “If I ever come across a real bottle I’ll share it with you,” Dorian told him consolingly. “Maybe.”

Getting Stitches into his apartment was harder than getting him to the car had been. He made them stop three times for false alarms. Bull wasn’t sure if he was actually going to be sick or just liked being the center of attention. Playing rhythm guitar in a band with Bull made him enjoy the spotlight when he could get it.

Stitches and Dorian wound up living in the same building, which was good, because Stitches apparently couldn’t remember the code. He leaned on Dalish while Dorian punched it in, getting it right on the third try. “The buttons stick,” he told Bull defensively.

Bull didn’t mind. Dorian was back to glaring and sniping—it wasn’t his kindest attitude, but it was better than the hurt vacancy he’d had before.

Anders was home when they finally got Stitches up the stairs. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded as Bull gave up and just carried the kid up the stairs. “He’s not as bad as he looks,” he told the human. Anders waved a hand airily, ushering them all inside.

“I’ll deal with him in the morning if he is. I’ve got a great elfroot tea that just _kills_ hangovers…”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Stitches struggled out of Bull’s grip and only leaned against the wall a little bit. “Don’t let him give me that tea, Boss. It’s not just elfroot, it can’t be. It’s got something evil in it. Darkspawn blood, probably. I won't drink it again.” He glared weakly at Anders, who shrugged with a mysterious grin.

Dalish pushed by Bull, announcing that she was sleeping on their couch. No one objected, so she dropped heavily onto the cushions and flipped a blanket over her. It was always on the back of the couch for just that purpose. Two cats appeared immediately and jumped up next to her, purring and demanding attention. She ignored them for the most part, curling up and working very hard to go to sleep. Bull scooped one up to scratch it under the chin. It was Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He liked Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

Dorian was hovering in the doorway, clearly unsure of his welcome. Bull brought Ser Pounce over. Dorian stroked him hesitantly, and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr. “Ser Pounce-a-Lot is my Ataashi’s big brother," he told Dorian. “Stitches and Anders here gave her to me once she started beating the other cats up.”

Anders had maneuvered Stitches to the bathroom, and returned to lean against the wall. Ser Pounce-a-Lot transferred himself onto Dorian, and rubbed his face against the ‘Vint’s chin. Dorian looked completely smitten; he didn’t even seem to care that Ser Pounce-a-Lot had disturbed his mustache. Anders chuckled.

“Haven’t I seen you around with Dagna?” He asked Dorian. “What are you doing with these drunken louts?” Bull was still trying to pet the cat, even as he wound himself around Dorian’s shoulders. Dorian looked good with a cat ruff, he noticed. (Dorian looked good in everything.)

Dorian blushed and stammered something about the SSO. “Oh so you’re a _music_ friend.” Anders said like it meant something. Bull didn’t like his tone. “Well, I won’t hold it against you. Ser Pounce is an excellent judge of character, so if he likes you, you’re alright in my books.” Dorian tried to fix his mustache. Bull tried to coax the cat off of Dorian’s shoulders. He shot a glance at Anders, who was watching Dorian, _smirking_. And Dorian was flustered, fiddling with his mustache and petting the cat, clearly trying not to fidget—and doing a terrible job. This was _all_ terrible.

“Isn’t Ser Pounce just the best cat ever?” Anders was asking Dorian, in a baby-talk that Bull found very off-putting. Maybe he wasn’t trying to chat Dorian up. Maybe he was just that stupid over his cat.

Dorian nodded and cooed at the cat on his shoulder. “I had a pet monkey once,” he told Bull and Anders. “But he was a bit of an asshole. Cats are assholes too, that’s why I like them.” Anders looked like he felt the need to defend Ser Pounce’s honor. After a brief lecture on why cats are always precious and _never_ assholes, they were ushered out of Anders’ apartment and the door was shut firmly behind them. Bull tried not to feel smug about it.

The stood on the landing for a long, awkward second. Bull turned to head down the stairs and out to his car. He should feed Ataashi soon, or make sure Krem and Harding had; he should move his car in case the meter ran out (he had fed it enough coins for an hour, but still. Sometimes, shit just happened.) He felt like he should leave. 

Dorian put a hand on his arm, then quickly withdrew it. He twirled his moustache a little, straightening it out. “Do you want a cup of coffee or something? Since you drove me all the way here…”

“Yeah, sure!” Bull was a weak man. He avoided Dorian’s eye and followed him up the stairs.

As soon as he stepped in, it was obvious that Dorian’s apartment was not designed with Qunari in mind. The chairs and tables were low, things dangled from the ceiling, sure to get caught in his horns. He stuck his boots next to a pile of other shoes when Dorian did, and Dorian ushered him over to the love seat—the only thing wide enough for him, really. Dorian shifted a pile of books onto the floor before gathering up some used mugs from the table and hurrying into the kitchen. Bull looked at the books Dorian had moved. _Organic Glyphs and Their Applications_ was the title of the first book he picked up. It was heavy, with thick pages of color illustrations. Pages upon pages of small text followed each illustration. It was really rather intimidating, as were the masses of sticky notes and marginalia, all written in tight, looping Tevene. Dorian’s handwriting was precise, every line straight and every letter uniform. The only variation was the color of the ink, which cycled randomly through every color, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Bull put the book down.

A collection of Elvhan myths was similarly annotated, as was _My Staff is Out Batteries_ —it was not porn, he was slightly disappointed to find, instead it was a guide to combining magic and technology. The book fell open to a chapter titled “How to NOT Fry Electronics.” Tip One, highlighted, underlined, and circled, was “Do NOT try to charge any phones with magic.” On the side, Dorian had a list of items “Proven not to interact well with magically-produced energy of any voltage” which included phones, power lines, internet modems (this had a frowny face in glittery purple ink next to it) and sinks. Lightbulbs were in their own list, “Improved by magical electricity,” and accompanied by eighteen tally marks and the words “days on without plugging in lamp.” 

He was thumbing through a novel, _The Princess Bride_ , and chuckling at the notes that Dorian had added in the margins of that as well, when the mage returned, balancing two tall cups of iced coffee and a plate of cookies.

“Dagna made them,” he said, putting everything on the coffee table in front of Bull. “We had a Day of Scientific Inquiry-- her words-- to discover if I am capable of cooking anything normal. I am not.”

“But you can cook things that aren’t normal?” Bull ate a cookie, and ascended to a higher plane of being. It was glorious.

“If it looks like it can make Orlesians cry tears of inferiority, I can make it, but learning to cook from my father’s in-house chef did not prepare me for mac and cheese or burgers.” Dorian pouted, curling up in a red armchair to the left of the love seat. Bull wondered if Dorian chose the spot on purpose to accommodate his missing eye. “I’ve been deprived and lied to, you know. Cesere told me that a meal that cost less than fifty sovereigns could only be trash, but I’ve discovered taco trucks. I know the truth.”

Bull chuckled, and sipped the coffee. “This isn’t bad," he offered. It really wasn’t.

Dorian looked mournful. “That’s because Dagna made it. When she makes too much in the morning she freezes it for later.”

“Well… you did a good job putting it in the glasses.”

Dorian sulked haughtily at him. “That isn’t funny.”

Bull ate a third cookie, and Dorian nibbled at the edges of one, looking nervous. “So…” Bull said into the silence that was only _slightly_ awkward. Better to rip the Band-Aid off. “Do you want to talk about what happened at the club?”

Dorian almost dropped his cookie. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you had an anxiety attack, and were pretty much non-verbal for an hour.” Dorian avoided his eye. He made his voice as gentle as he could. “I was worried, Dorian. One minute you were fine, and the next you practically collapsed in on yourself. Can you tell me what happened?”

The mage looked confused and upset. But he did _not_ , Bull was relieved to see, start to close himself off. He crumbled the cookie between his hands, dropping the crumbs into his half-empty cup. He picked up a book from the floor and put it on the table, carefully lined up with the edge, then twisted the tassels of a pillow around his fingers, and then straightened his mustache. Bull tried to wait patiently; the ball was in Dorian’s court.

Dorian refused to look at him, but did start talking. “I _was_ fine," he said haltingly. “I was fine until I started thinking about Tevinter, and the clubs there. They have dark, out of the way corners where anything can happen, where things _do_ happen. That’s the way it works. You hide the shameful things you do and everyone else who does the same shameful things pretends not to remember in the morning. No one does friendships, or Maker forbid, _relationships_.”

Bull was a bit confused.

Dorian continued. “No one talks about it, you see? About sex. No one makes jokes about _men_ or insinuates anything other than perfect heterosexuality. You do.”

Doing his best to tread carefully, Bull sipped his coffee before responding. “And that makes you uncomfortable?”

“Yes. No… it’s new. That’s not the problem.” He picked at pieces of lint on the pillow, his words abrupt, the pauses in between too long. “Mostly, it’s me. I’m still thinking like I’m in Tevinter. I have to get used to these things, not fall apart with worry any time I see Sera kiss Maryden or think about what I might… I want to be normal.” Bull shifted in his seat, unsure. He wanted to reach out and comfort Dorian, but had no idea how. Silence stretched between them.

Bull took a breath. “Do you think that—“

Dorian’s gaze suddenly snapped up to meet his. “I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want you to feel like you need to deal with my problems. I’m sorry you had to deal with my freak-out, thank you for helping me.” Bull felt like he was _watching_ Dorian’s walls go back up.

“I don’t mind," he told Dorian, trying not to sound frustrated, or desperate, or scared.

Dorian had uncurled, and was siting ram-rod straight on the chair. His hands were closed into fists and Bull wondered if he was imagining the static crackle of electricity in the room. “ _I_ mind. I’m not accustomed to appearing weak in front of strangers.”

That hurt. “Oh, I kinda thought we were friends.”

Dorian looked stricken. “That’s not what I meant. I meant… I mean that I…” He trailed off, and rubbed angrily at his eyes.

Bull felt his gut clench. Everything was going wrong. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can we start this over?” He suggested. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, or justify your feelings… I’m not trying to control you, or judge you, or anything. I asked because I wanted to know if I had done something to make you… freak out.” He used Dorian’s words when he couldn’t come up with his own.

Dorian nodded hesitantly. “You didn’t," he said. “I did it all on my own.” He laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry, none of it’s your fault, I’m just so messed up that I can ruin evenings all by myself.” He was cross-legged on the seat, staring at his cup, watching the ice was melt and make a soggy mess of the discarded crumbs.

Bull leaned forward and put a hand on his knee, startling him. “Hey, nothing’s ruined. I’ve had coffee, alcohol, time with friends, _cats_. I think tonight has been pretty great, all things considered.”

Dorian chuckled at him. It was almost a real laugh, and Bull counted it as a win. He moved his hand, reluctantly. “Maybe I should get a cat,” Dorian mused. “All I have is a spider plant.”

“They’re not good for petting, that’s true,” Bull said. “But they don’t need litterboxes.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose elegantly. Bull noticed that most of his makeup was gone altogether. Without it, he looked younger, somehow. “I guess for now I’ll just have to content myself with YouTube videos and stray cats that let me pet them. Or maybe Anders!” He looked pleased with himself. “He has cats!”

Bull was starting to wish he hadn’t brought Stitches back with them. “I have a cat too, you know.” He tried not to whine, and thought he did a passable job. “And I keep normal hours because I don’t work in a hospital. You should come meet Ataashi! She’s the best cat ever.” 

Dorian did laugh, finally. “I probably should.” He tried to take a drink of his coffee, but it was still soggy crumbs. “Ugh.” He stood up. “Do you want more cookies? I’m getting you more cookies.”

Bull looked at the table, and found that he had apparently consumed everything Dorian had brought out. He shrugged. Bull took the chance to glance around the apartment again. There was a Chargers poster, he noticed, one of the earliest designs that they’d used. It must be Dorian’s roommate then, since they’d stopped selling those. 

Dorian came back with a new cup of coffee for himself, and another plate of cookies, that he put on Bull’s lap instead of the coffee table. “Efficiency,” he said when Bull raised an eyebrow. He curled up on the armchair again. “So I’ve got Vivienne’s outlook on everyone in the SSO, but you must have a different perspective on all the gossip.” He looked at Bull over the rim of the cup. “Is it true that Cadash used to be in the Carta?”

Bull smirked at him. “Used to be? No.”

“What, really?” Dorian leaned forward, “has she ever bashed in someone’s kneecaps? Have you met her family? Are they like _Godfather_?”

“I don’t think it’s much like the movies. No Tommy guns or horse heads as far as I know. And don’t ask Cadash about it, she hates all the stereotypes.” 

“Shhh, don’t ruin my fantasies, Bull.”

“I would never. You could tell me about some of them, though.”

Dorian blushed a little, looking at Bull with an expression he found hard to categorize. Then Dorian burst out laughing. “Did you just try to wink? You know how ridiculous that looks with one eye, right?”

Bull shrugged and chuckled too. “Well, I try to practice in the mirror, but I can’t actually see what I look like.”

“Here, do it again, I’ll take a picture.” Dorian took out his phone.

Bull humored him, winking in the most exaggerated way he could. The picture did look pretty absurd, but Bull was more interested in the way it was making Dorian laugh, trying to smother his giggling until he was breathless. He laughed quietly, but with his full body, a hand over his mouth and shoulders shaking. Compared to the way he normally laughed, which could probably be best described as “elegant huffing,” he seemed practically uncontrolled, and Bull felt a rush of affection. 

Suddenly, Dorian shoved his phone into Bull’s hand. He looked at him curiously. “I just thought we should have each other’s numbers.” Dorian was blushing again. He twirled his mustache a bit. “You know, so we can organize… cat parties…” Bull raised an eyebrow, and he coughed awkwardly. “Just give me your number, alright?”

“Sure, sure.” Bull poked at the phone, to avoid grinning stupidly at him. “Uh, Dorian, this is all in Tevene.” 

Dorian grumbled to himself and swiped the phone back. “Here, just enter the numbers in this box, I’ll do the rest.”

Bull did. “So I don’t recommend trying this yourself, but I have gotten Cadash drunk enough to do a Godfather impression. It was awful. She can’t do the accent at all.”

Dorian grabbed a cookie. “Why shouldn’t I try it? That sounds hilarious.”

“Because I had to challenge her to a drinking contest and she very nearly beat me. I’m not sure you could hold your own against her. She can drink a _lot_ , even for a dwarf.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been drinking with plenty of dwarves in Tevinter, and they’ve told me I’m plenty capable for a human.”

Bull snorted. “Whoever told you that was just trying to get into your pants.”

Dorian groaned expressively. “You have _no_ idea. You haven’t heard bad pickup lines until you’ve been in a Tevinter club past two AM. One time, this guy actually asked me if I was a desire demon. I’d heard that one before, actually, but his _delivery_.” He started laughing again. “He said something like: ‘Are we in the Fade? Because you’re the man of my dreams.’ I couldn’t keep a straight face. It was awful.”

“At least it’s creative?” Bull ventured.

“It’s not. That’s all they talk about in Tevinter. It’s always, ‘I’m a time mage, and in the future, you’re not wearing pants.’ Or ‘Are you a blood mage, because you just cast a spell on my heart.’ And sometimes it’s just ‘ _magic fingers_ ’ and they go like this,” he waggled his hand at Bull suggestively. “As if everyone hasn’t figured that one out on their own. It’s like they don’t even try.”

“Hey, I think there’s a certain elegance to a truly cliché line. My personal favorite is ‘save a horse, ride a Qunari.’” Dorian guffawed. “It works!” Bull told him.

“Are you a time traveler from 9:40 Dragon because there’s a mage uprising in my pants,” Dorian said, deadpan. “Are you a Crow because you are slaying that outfit. Are you a rogue, because you’ve stolen my heart.” He ticked them off on his fingers and raised an eyebrow at Bull. “I can keep going.” Bull raised his hands in defeat and Dorian leaned back. “Those are the worst I’ve heard. Felix and I found a website of just the _most awful_ lines once. Of course, whoever made it thought they were a genius.”

Bull finished his coffee. “Who’s Felix?”

Dorian froze. The only thing that moved in the room was the mobile hanging from the fan, moons lazily orbiting the planets orbiting the sun. Well, that wasn’t true. In the sudden quiet, Bull could hear the ice tapping against the glass in Dorian’s hand as it shook slightly, his fingers tight. The air itself felt tense. _Vashedan_. Bull wasn’t sure exactly how, but he’d stepped in it.

Well, no way out but through. “That’s a Tevene name, right?” He tried for a light tone. “Is he a friend from home?”

“He was.” Dorian’s jaw was tight.

“Oh, sorry.” Yeah, Bull could see how old friends might be a sore spot. “I guess he wasn’t so supportive of the living out and proud far away from everything you knew idea? Honestly, if someone can’t accept you the way you are you’re better off without—“ Dorian was crying. “Shit.”

Dorian wiped his eyes angrily. “Felix was the only one who _did_ accept me," he said.

An ex, then. Bull was not on his game tonight. He tried to rearrange his face into a supportive expression. “I’m glad someone did.” He hoped he didn’t sound too… artificial. “Do you still talk to him? Having support is important.”

“Bull, he’s dead.”

Oh, fuck. “Oh, fuck.”

Dorian made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Indeed.” He’d stopped crying, mostly. His eyes were still wet. One hand was tight around his necklace. Bull sat on the little couch and felt like utterly helpless shit. Dorian leaned his head back and took a deep breath. “I think that’s the first time I’ve said it, actually. Vivienne already knew, and I didn’t really talk to anyone _there_ after it happened.” He stared at the ceiling. “I thought for a bit that not saying it could make it less true somehow, but nothing’s different now. I’m still alone.”

“You’re not though.” Bull tried not to cringe at how cliché that sounded. “I mean, right now, Dagna’s your friend, I’m your friend, you’ve got Vivienne, and Sera and Cadash.” Touching Dorian always felt like taking a risk, but Bull put a hand on his arm. “Really, you’re not alone.” He spoke with all the conviction he could muster.

Dorian looked at him. “I’m not alone here. I’m alone in the past, I guess. Felix was my best friend for so long that losing him feels like losing memories, or watching my childhood home burn down, or something.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Ugh, just ignore me, I’m not making any sense.”

“No, I get it.” Bull watched Dorian’s arm under his hand, the muscles moving as he drummed his fingers anxiously on the arm of the chair. “Really, I do. I told you I was in a gang, right? Well, it was really more of a cult. Revive the Qun, return the Qunari people to their former glory, that sort of thing.” Dorian stared at him out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, you bounce around enough foster homes and you’ll appreciate anyone who makes you feel wanted. I was a kid when I first got into it, and it felt more like a family than anything else ever had. And the Ben-Hassrath gave me a purpose, made me feel like I was worth something to someone. I got jobs through them, a place to stay… It was great until they started asking me to kill people. They always made it seem like a choice, but it was choice with a wrong answer. Once I said no enough times… well, I decided to leave before they did something. They did something anyway.”

“That scar on your stomach. How you met Stitches.” Dorian looked pale. Bull nodded. “They wanted you to _kill_ people? _Venhedis_ , my issues seem small by comparison.”

“What? No, that’s not what I was trying to do!” He shook Dorian’s arm a bit. “No, I was about to say that’s not the same as having your boyfriend die.” He ignored Dorian’s protests. He wasn’t about to listen to him trivialize his own feelings or let him focus on Bull in order to ignore them. “They’re different experiences, sure. That’s because we’re different people. But trauma is still trauma, and comparing whose life is worse gets us nowhere.” He rubbed his forehead above the eyepatch. “I was trying to explain that I understand what you meant, when you said the past is lonely, and not sound like I was, y’know, saying it just to say something. That’s whole years of my life-- friends, family, everything-- that I can’t go back to. It’s still part of who I am, but, it’s over, at the same time.”

Dorian nodded a little. “I don’t have anything in Tevinter except memories.”

Bull nudged his shoulder. “So if you’re alone, so am I. We can be lonely losers together.”

Dorian chuckled and scrubbed his hand over his face. “You really know how to cheer a guy up, Bull.” He’d probably meant to sound sarcastic, but his voice was warm, if a little shaky. They sat together, not exactly holding hands, and not talking about anything important, for a while. It was the nicest indeterminate amount of time Bull had experienced lately.

Bull was having issues with the weird-ass clock (it kept spinning backwards? Or skipping?) so he wasn’t sure exactly what time Dagna returned, dragging some sort of machine behind her. She immediately grabbed the plate of cookies and glared at Bull when he tried to snag one more. She sat heavily on the floor in front of Dorian, and he rearranged himself so that he could rub her shoulders. “Frederic!” She whined and shoved a cookie in her mouth. “Just because he knows about the behaviors of dragons doesn’t mean he knows anything about building a robotic one. I hate group projects! I don’t see why I even need his input anyway, it’s not like he knows anything about programming. He should just let me make it and then do his part somewhere else.”

“You’re building a robot dragon?” Bull was intrigued. More than intrigued. He pushed the coffee table out of the way and sat on the floor with her. “Does it breathe fire?”

“Not yet. And Frederic doesn’t think it needs to, because he’s a boring history person.” Dorian made an offended noise. “He is, Dory. He talks about the same stuff you do, but he makes it so dry! I’ve tried to get Professor Harritt to keep anyone not in the Doctoral program out of the Undercroft, but _no_ , we have to foster ‘interdepartmental goodwill’ in case we ‘destroy’ another ‘building’.” She used finger quotes liberally and with biting sarcasm.

“I thought you weren’t even going to do this for him.” Dorian’s fingers glowed slightly green, and Bull wondered what sort of magic he was using, and what it felt like… “It’s got nothing to do with your dissertation.”

“Harritt’s counting it as TA hours, so it’s not like I’m doing it for nothing. And it’s about politics too, the history department will owe us a favor. Also, Dory, it’s a robot dragon.”

“Yeah, come on, Dory.” Bull smirked. “Robot Dragon.”

Dagna leaned over and smacked him on the leg. “That’s my embarrassing nickname. You get your own.”

“Stay still, Dagna. If you want back rubs, I have to be able to reach your back.” She sat back and chowed down on another cookie. 

She talked with her hands, Bull learned. He’d only interacted with her in the Herald before. “Frederic is obsessed with dragons," she told him. “Normally, this would be a good thing. But he only cares about the really boring things, like how people used to hunt them. I’m building a robotic dragon for him to use in a demonstration.” She paused briefly as Dorian worked on a knot in her shoulder. Bull tried not to stare at his hands. “ _And_ , he thinks he knows how to program it to move. He doesn’t! He’s got it all wrong!”

Bull didn’t totally follow everything she said after that, she had a habit of not finishing sentences, and switching to Dwarven when she talked numbers. He did his best to make affirmative sounds in the right places. She didn’t seem to mind.

She wound down after a few minutes, and then dozed off, snoring against Dorian’s knee. The mage looked down at her fondly. “Six months ago, this is the last thing I would expect to be doing, but I like it.” He smiled shyly at Bull. “I like having friends,” he said, like it was a big secret. “It’s actually… rather new to me. I’ve only had one real friend before, and it’s all a bit overwhelming. But, it’s good. I’m glad I have friends.”

Bull tried not to show that he had just been stabbed in the heart. He wondered if Dorian even realized how lonely he sounded. “I’m glad we’re friends too, Dorian.”

He hoisted himself to his feet and gathered the plate and cups. He hunched over the low sink in order to rinse them, and took a steadying breath. Dorian was happy, he’d just said so. But it took so little to make Dorian happy, and Bull had to wonder just how sad he’d been before. 

Dorian’s eyes opened when Bull came back, but he looked more than half asleep. “I’m heading out,” Bull whispered. “Do you want me to move Dagna?”

Dorian shook his head. “She’ll wake up on her own soon. Moving her unexpectedly isn’t a good idea.” Bull nodded and grabbed a blanket from the empty chair. He settled it over Dorian, who watched him quietly. “Thanks.” Dorian told his back once he turned to put his shoes back on.

Bull closed the door quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bull does his best but he misses some stuff...  
> Hello to Anders and Ser Pounce! Is Bull being a silly jealous baby? We'll see~  
> And more lovely lovely Dagna! Yay!


	9. We Didn't Start the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds old things in new places, learns about weird Southern traditions, and the Bull gets to spend time with his friends.

As time wound down towards his first performance with the SSO, Dorian began to battle with a new type of nervousness. He was familiar with pre-show jitters-- annoying fluctuations in appetite, trouble sleeping, near-obsessive mental rehearsing of fingerings and bowings and blocking and breathing-- but it was different in Ferelden. For one, he cared far more about his fellow musicians than he ever had before.

He found himself checking in with multiple people during each rehearsal. Was Cole doing alright on his chemistry homework? Had Maryden called Sera back yet? Did Vivienne think Bastien's latest bill would pass this month or next? 

However, he did maintain old habits from Tevinter: he practiced every movement daily, still worried that he would forget something or slip up at a crucial moment. In rehearsal, Dorian did his best to focus on just his music. He enjoyed strings-only rehearsals, he’d never admit it, but he got a bit of a rush from the moments when everything just lined up perfectly. It was happening more and more often as the sections began to gel, but there were still a few kinks to iron out.

This time, the problems weren’t musical at all. Who knew why-- maybe it was the approaching performance, maybe it was the full moon, but tensions were running high among the other violinists.

Solas, in particular, was very grumpy. Dorian was doing his best to focus on his own score, but Solas just wasn’t sitting still. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian kept catching him shifting, shuffling his papers, even tapping his bow against the music stand.

He was beginning to consider politely asking the elf to stop fidgeting, but Sera beat him to it. “What crawled up your arse and died, Baldy?” She asked, in the caring, compassionate way that only she could master.

Solas turned a withering glare on her, but Vivienne, of all people, cut in. “Really, Solas,” she sighed, “is there somewhere you’d rather be? If we aren’t keeping you from anything _too_ crucial, could you kindly refrain from distracting the rest of us?”

In Solas’s place, Dorian thought, he probably would have combusted from fear and embarrassment. Sera and Vivienne were two of the most terrifying women he knew, and he was including Dagna and both his mother and grandmother, dueling matriarchs of the Pavus name, in that assessment.

But Solas apparently did not have a sense of self preservation, because he ignored Vivienne. Instead, he said something in ancient Elvhan, which even Dorian could tell was meant to be insulting, and also directed towards Sera. He saw her hackles go up, and knew that the rehearsal was as good as over.

He was right.

Twenty minutes later, Dorian wandered the level below the rehearsal room, not headed anywhere. Vivienne had offered him a ride home after rehearsal, but with the rehearsal canceled and her... in discussion... Dorian was at loose ends.

He headed up a different set of stairs, crossed a large empty room, his footsteps ringing on the heavy flagstone floors, and let himself out an inconspicuous door. He found himself in a wide garden, nestled between the arms of the historical buildings. It took a moment for Dorian to orient himself within the walls of Skyhold. He realized it backed against the stonework of the original fortress wall, and must have been a very early design element. 

Dorian took a deep breath and opened himself to his magic, wondering if the ancient Elvhan building spells were still readable. They weren't, but only because they were covered with centuries of updates and revisions, barely visible behind the webs of more recent spells. Dorian was fascinated. In Tevinter, of course, he'd encountered chains of spells that stretched far back into history, but they were always regulated and maintained by architects, adept at meshing new and old. They did their best to make them all look and feel the same, as well, since magical aesthetics were just as important as anything else.

But the layers and decades of spells that held up this fortress were not the well-choreographed displays of the Magisterium. Created by successive groups over the course of Ages, placed by people with different goals, different religions and backgrounds and theories of magic-- some spells canceled out older ones, some still hummed with tension against future tamperers, some were defensive, others evoked emotions, influenced the weather. He found a particularly interesting one that covered the ground like a net, or moss, and coaxed plants to grow in the soil of the garden no matter where they originated. He sat down in a sunny corner that was still singing to amrita vein plants, despite the likelihood that Skyhold wind would kill the delicate desert flower.

The spell, still pulling strong despite the centuries he could feel behind it, warmed the corner beyond what was strictly natural, the air dry and still in the pocket of magic. Dorian was alone in the garden, another spell whispered to him. People moved at the edges of the spell's reach, but they would not come near him and did not want to find him. He wondered what sort of long-dead mage had woven this small spell of solitude, and thanked them.

Dorian sat where someone had once tried to grow amarita veins, reveling in the warm, dry ground and in the knowledge that he was completely alone. The small space felt like a greenhouse, the fading sunlight of a Fereldan evening trapped and magnified by invisible panes of glass. For a moment, Dorian imagined himself as a desert flower, growing here, in the mountains, the threat of the winter snow hanging over his head. He felt a tug of homesickness as he leaned against the wall, remembering warm ocean air and the stillness before a winter storm in Qarinus. He thought for a moment, about twenty minutes in, that he might cry. He did not.

He missed Felix. He spent a long time thinking about that.

This quiet garden was infecting his thoughts like too many days reading ancient love poetry. This was entirely too much introspection when he didn't even know how he was getting home tonight.

Dorian stood up and dusted himself off carefully, though he couldn't bring himself to regret sitting in the dirt. It took some time to find his way back to the main courtyard of the fortress, and he sat under the tiny bus shelter for five minutes before he thought to check his phone. _Venhedis,_ he had missed it. Of course.

However, he had a text from Krem, of all people. How had he gotten Krem's number? There was a cactus emoticon next to Krem's name, so Dorian figured it must have happened at the Herald. He only used emoticons when he was texting drunk.

His phone was still set up in Tevene, but he was accustomed to texts in Fereldan Common. For some reason though, Krem's message was partly in Tevene, and it spoke to just how entrenched he'd already become in his new home that Dorian had to squint and rub his moustache before he understood what he was looking at. 

-Prty 4 Chrgrs et amici ad meum/Bull's place. Bring booze + ur stupid face. U hv to pet felum-

-Beatus venire fuero- Dorian responded in perfectly spelled Tevene, because that was how he responded to invitations. Then it occurred to him that Krem might not be flattered by Altus manners. 

Dorian took a deep breath and considered his life choices. Then he composed, with judicious use of abbreviations and Common, and a truly difficult lack of punctuation, his first purposefully misspelled text. He hoped fervently that it was appropriately casual. 

-adhaesio @ skyhold- he told Krem. -missed bus. no car. Si aliquam mittis to come get me, i'll have to come to ur party-

He wondered if that sounded too grudging. -ataashi mulcere volo- He sent a minute later.

-GREATT- was Krem's response. -mitto u a ride- Dorian felt like that was rather too vague. His phone buzzed again a minute later, displaying an unfamiliar number. With some trepidation, he answered it on the third ring.

"Hallo, is this Dorian?" Said an unfamiliar voice. The speaker was female, with a vague, possibly Marcher accent. The connection wasn't great. "If not, and Krem's sent me on some bullshit halla chase up to a feckin' castle, I may need to rip his mohawk off," she said daintily, voice slightly muffled. "...Are you still there?"

"Yes," Dorian replied, for lack of a better response. "This is Dorian."

"Good. I'll be on the causeway in 20. If you start walking and meet me part way, I would be terribly grateful and much less likely to incinerate you."

"No problem," he said quickly. "I really appreciate this." He paused. "What sort of car are you driving?"

"The sort that stops for random fecking hobos walking on bridges in the middle of the night," she answered cheerfully, and hung up before Dorian could point out that it was barely evening. Or that he resented her assumption that he was a hobo. He looked very presentable and clean-cut, in fact.

Huffing a bit at her rudeness, he headed towards the old towers that still stood at the entrance to the castle's courtyard. The gate was long-since removed, but Dorian had a new appreciation for the scale of the fortress as he walked between the massive stone walls. This place must have been impenetrable once, he thought. Someone could have stood here and fought off armies. He hoped the wind didn't blow him off the bridge. 

He shivered as he trudged along, holding his violin case in a loose hug. He knew his body heat wouldn't protect it from the cold in any real way, but it made him feel better. Nervous about meeting this unnamed, oddly frightening friend of Krem's, he wrapped a hand around his necklace too. 

He got most of the way across the causeway when bright red car rolled to a stop a few feet in front of him. An elf stuck her head out the passenger window. "You Dorian?" It was the mysterious ride. "Get in, shem. It’s colder than Fen’Heral’s fecking balls." What was it about the Iron Bull's friends that made them all curse so damn much? 

He complied, nodding a hello at the blond human driving the car. The other man grunted in return. "I really do appreciate this. You didn't need to pick me up." He recognized them now, as Dalish and Grim, two members of Bull's band. He didn't know why none of them went by their real names except for Krem. He'd never had a real conversation with either of them.

By the end of the ride, he still hadn't. Grim, apparently, didn't talk, and Dalish wasn't interested in talking to Dorian. She seemed to have mastered the art of the rhetorical statement, and held up the conversation completely on her own. 

Dorian successfully broke into her conversation exactly once. “What god is your Vallaslin for?” He asked.

“Oh, this?” Dalish pointed with her middle finger. “It’s the Vallaslin of Falon’Din, sacred god of curb-stomping shems who don’t know when to shut their nosy mouths.”

“Ah,” said Dorian.

The rest of the time, he sat quietly in the back seat and wondered what exactly he was in for.

\---

With rehearsal canceled, Bull had gone home with the intention of playing video games, cuddling with his cat, and getting a head start on cooking for the weekly Chargers' Dinner.

Instead, Krem had decided they should just have the Chargers' Dinner on Thursday instead of Friday, and things had spiraled out of control from there. Harding and Dalish had already been hanging around, so Krem marshalled his forces and gave out jobs. The Chargers were called to descend on the apartment in force, Harding was sent for booze, and Bull was sent to the store with the precise and helpful instructions "extra food."

So far, so good. Bull was always happy to get his band together. The Chargers' Dinner was important to him. They had grown from Bull and Krem scrounging whatever they could find together into elaborate feasts as everyone grew up and got steadier jobs—the band didn’t really pay so well. Bull loved the dinners and threw as many as possible, not on a schedule but usually at least once a week. In addition to ensuring that everyone, including their resident stressed-out med student, got regular, healthy meals, it made Bull feel like he had a real family, who looked out for each other and made time to be together. The Chargers Dinners were like he imagined wintersend parties were for Andrastian kids, bright glowing memories of family and happiness.

He got home with five frozen pizzas, too many bags of dragon-shaped chicken nuggets (eating dragons made him feel powerful), everything he needed for a giant pot of vegan chili, and pancake mix, in case anyone forgot to go back to their own homes. Ataashi wound around his feet as he set up in the kitchen. Putting her on his horns to keep from stepping on her, Bull chopped vegetables and listened to everyone starting to arrive.

Harding he expected, of course. She dropped off the beer in the fridge before heading into the living room. "Get your hands off that controler!" She shouted at Krem. "No way in hell are we playing Mario Party!"

Rocky and his wife showed up shortly after Harding, though Rocky did not come into the kitchen. Bull felt Ataashi rearrange herself on his head to watch Rocky through the door. She knew that he had called her a "vicious, hairy nug" and she was deeply offended. 

Dalish, Skinner and Grim arrived when he'd taken the first pizza out of the oven, and that was when things had started to go downhill. Even over the sounds of Harding and Rocky’s wife in cutthroat MarioKart competition, Bull could hear Krem and Dalish conspiring. He stuck his head around the corner and eyed them with suspicion.

They looked back at him with patently unconvincing innocence. "I was just wondering," Krem drawled, "if we should invite Dagna and Dorian over for dinner." Bull heard alarm bells going off in his head. 

"Stitches is still at his apartment. He could pick them up," Dalish contributed. 

Bee edged Harding's car off the Rainbow Road and into the void, and whooped in victory. Harding stuck her head up over the back of the couch to ignore the other dwarf. "I like Dagna!" She contributed with a conspiratorial sparkle. "She does good mayhem!"

"Grim agrees!" Said Dalish, her arm around poor Grim's shoulder... wait. He wasn't loving the unnecessarily tight one-armed hug, Bull could tell, but Grim did huff out a smirk and a small nod. "We should invite the dwarf that Harding likes and the 'Vint you've got the hots for." She continued with an evil cackle.

This was too much. "This is a conspiracy," he squinted at Krem. "And it's _your_ fault."

"Nah," Krem looked unconcerned-- that was annoying, Bull was sure that having Ataashi on his head could only up his intimidation factor-- "I didn't have to tell anyone about your crush. You're not exactly, subtle, chief." The other Chargers chorused their agreement.

"Even _I_ can tell," Bee singsonged and she pulled Harding back onto the couch for a rematch, "and I've never even met the kid."

Bull had to laugh. He knew when he was beaten. Grinning with triumph, Krem whipped out his phone. "I'm inviting Sera, too," he told the room at large. "You got a lot of food, right, chief?"

"Yes, yes." Bull went back to the kitchen. "I always get too much food, just in case someone decides to throw a party _just_ so they can embarrass me in front of attractive people." Grim wandered in behind Bull and grabbed a bag of the dragon-nuggets out of the freezer. He spread them on a tray and raised his eyebrows at Bull.

"You can help, but you have to wear an apron too." Bull tossed one to him, a plain blue one that Krem had insisted on buying, because "not everyone likes pink frills or stupid puns _all_ the time, chief," like that was some sort of argument. Grim tied it on without complaint.

He passed Grim some onions to chop for an extra pizza, since Bull valued the health of his friends and felt better if he put _some_ fresh veggies in their food, and they worked together in companionable silence for a while. The Chargers got rowdier in the living room as a video game tournament began. Krem declared that when he won, they were switching to Mario Party, and cackled madly as everyone groaned and threw things at him. Bull chuckled to himself.

Onions chopped, Grim hopped up on the counter and handed Bull a beer. Ataashi descended regally from the Qunari's shoulders and curled up Grim's lap. He watched Bull quietly while he stroked her ears and scratched her under the chin. Bull sighed.

"I do think it's good for Dorian to come to a dinner," he told Grim. "I just hope no one says anything to make him uncomfortable." Grim grunted. "Yeah, I'm sure they will somehow, you're right. But he can give as good as he gets."

Grim smirked at him, but his head was still tilted in question. It had taken Bull a while to have real conversations with him, but he valued Grim as much as any of his friends. And the guy was a great drummer. "I don't mind them joking with me," he answered Grim's inquiring eyes. "I mean, they're kind of completely right."

Grim smiled. An actual, real smile. Bull could see his teeth and everything. "Shut up." Bull coughed. He thought he might be blushing. "I don't know what Krem's been telling you, but he's probably exaggerating." He nudged Grim's shoulder, knocking him a bit off balance. "Whatever."

Grim took a swig from his beer and kept smiling at him. Dalish swooped into the kitchen, looking mischevious. "Come _on_." She tried to pull Grim off the counter. "Apparently, 'Vint the Hottie got himself stuck up at the castle on the hill. I'm not going to make chief stop cooking to save his damsel in distress, but the Dread Wolf couldn’t make me drive up there alone." Grim held up a hand and she stopped pulling on him long enough for Bull to scoop Ataashi back up. "Ugh," She said, "don't get cat hairs in the chili. That would be a terrible first impression of your cooking."

Grim allowed himself to be pulled out of the kitchen with a short wave to Bull. Alone, Bull took a moment to wonder if Dorian coming to a Chargers' dinner would be a complete disaster.

\---

When he was unwise enough to imagine what the Iron Bull's apartment was like, Dorian found his imagination was very specific about some things (like the presence of walls and beds and particularly the Bull himself) and very vague about others. For instance, he'd never stopped to wonder if the doors would be bigger than the ones in his own apartment.

They weren’t. Krem and the Iron Bull lived near the old Alienage, in a building that had clearly been designed for elves, or at least humans. The doorways were narrow, and he knew immediately which apartment was Bull’s. The top of the doorframe was clearly scarred by the Bull’s unusual horns, and Dorian could hear the Chargers from outside.

The noise increased significantly when they opened the door, and Dorian tripped over a pile of shoes in the tiny hallway. He could see directly into a living room, not very large, where five people we squeezed on the couch. They were faced away from the door, cheering and shouting at the TV, which, while not very large, took up most of the wall. They were playing Call of Duty: Ostegar. Krem, perched on the back of the couch, groaned dramatically when he died, and toppled backwards onto the floor. Dorian took a step forward in concern, but Krem bounced up with no apparent injuries. "You're back!" He crowed, and everyone turned to cheer at them.

Dorian was introduced to the "et amici" in Krem's texts, which included friends and significant others besides. Dorian made the acquaintance of Rocky's wife, Bee, as well as Dalish's roommate Tamlen. Sera was also there, and Dorian was simultaneously alarmed and oddly comforted to find her giggling in a corner with Dagna. They looked downright gleeful, which was heartwarming, but also spelled mayhem in the near future.

"Drinks are in the kitchen," someone told him, so he went that way. The Iron Bull was in there, and Dorian really didn't know what else he should have expected. The Bull was not wearing a shirt. He _was_ wearing a cat perched neatly on one of his horns, though his head didn't seem to tilt at all from the weight. Ataashi meowed at Dorian, and Bull turned around, nearly knocking over a bowl on the counter and a pot on the stove. The kitchen was too small for a table, though there were some stools at an island counter that stuck out from the wall. Dorian felt rather cramped, and he was just a moderately-tall human. The Iron Bull’s horns knocked against the cabinets when he moved his head.

He was holding a spatula, and while Dorian had noticed the absence of a shirt, he had not noticed the presence of the apron. He wasn't sure how he’d missed it. It was very large (proportionately so) and checkered white and green, and even had frills. Dorian couldn't help but stare.

The Iron Bull stared back. Dorian became aware that he was still wearing his jacket. He started to unzip it before he decided that would be uncomfortable for both of them.

"Hey," said the Iron Bull, and the oven behind him chimed. He spun around and grabbing a huge yellow oven mitt, crouched down to pull two trays out of the oven. "There's beer in the fridge," he told Dorian over his shoulder. Ataashi scrambled a bit to stay on his head, but settled down once he stood back up. "Can you grab me one?"

Dorian opened the fridge and was faced with a variety pack. Rather than agonize over which ones were actually good, he grabbed two at random and crossed the kitchen back to the Bull.

Without a chair, Dorian was forced to lean against the counter, and did his best to look casual. He held out both beers to the Bull. "Do you want Pumpkin Spice or ‘New Moon Brew’?" he offered. "I knew it was getting cold but I didn't realize how seriously Fereldans take the fall."

Bull chuckled, and Dorian did not experience a bubble of warmth. The Bull took both bottles and twisted the caps off. Dorian's fingers were cold from holding the beers, and he imagined he could feel the heat of the Bull's fingers even before they brushed against his. Then he furiously imagined that he hadn't felt it at all. This whole ignoring the crush until it left thing was a lot of work.

"I'll take Pumpkin Spice," Bull rumbled. "Yeah, you can find a Fereldan who's really into any season. Fall's a big one. They like scarves."

"I can respect that." Dorian considered. "But I don't understand-- they celebrate the fact that it's going to be cold?" Why on earth would anyone do that?

Bull shrugged. "Humans are weird." He pulled a frozen pizza out of a box and slipped it onto a tray. It went into the oven, replacing another tray. Dorian picked up a piece of... something fried. It was hot, and he dropped it with an undignified yelp. The Bull snorted.

Dorian pressed his finger against his cold beer bottle and glared at the Bull. "I'm glad you find my pain amusing."

The Bull managed to pull a contrite face for a moment before he started to chuckle again. "They're dragons," he said, and held one up, carefully, for Dorian's benefit. "You got burnt by a dragon.” Indeed, the offending food item was shaped like a little dragon. Dorian, incensed, poked it with a finger, and it burst into flame. It was the Bull's turn to yelp, and he dropped the chicken nugget in panic. Ataashi scampered away onto the counter.

The nugget dropped, smouldering, to the kitchen floor. They both stared at it for a moment. Ataashi hopped off the counter and absconded with it, crouching under a stool to sniff it more carefully before wolfing it down. 

"Man, tell me before you do that next time." The Bull's voice was a little shaky, and his one eye was trained on the burnt nugget like it might jump up and bite him. Dorian's stomach dropped. He'd gotten comfortable and forgotten that people did magic differently here, everything was different here, Bull probably thought he was about to set _him_ on fire.

He raised his hands in what he hoped was an unthreatening gesture and took a step back, coming up against the counter. "Sorry," he said. His voice shook almost as the Bull's. He cleared his throat and "Really, I didn't think." The Bull's eye focused on him. "Did I burn you?"

"Nah, just a scare." The casual tone was clearly forced and Dorian, motivated solely by concern, grabbed the Bull's hand and examined his fingertips. 

Sure enough, there was a small blister forming on one. Dorian felt awful. Injuring your host in his own home was a faux pas with occasionally bloody repercussions. More, he had hurt the Bull. Here he was trying to be good person and a good friend, and he was just burning people left and right.

He looked up at the Bull's face again, hoping he wasn’t angry. "This is a terrible place for a burn. As apology, and for the sake of the orchestra and your band, may I use a touch of magic to heal it?" Healing wasn't exactly his forte, but he was well experienced with small burns. He could do this. He could make it right.

The Bull nodded, so Dorian summoned a touch of energy into his hands. They glowed slightly green, and he concentrated the magic in two fingertips to cover the burn. The Bull stared at their hands and then at Dorian's face as the mage focused on making his magic follow old healing forms. Dorian leaned forward a little so he could watch exactly what his magic was doing.

He probably held the Bull's hand longer than was strictly necessary, but he was determined to fix what he'd done. He didn't want the Bull to be afraid of his magic-- or any magic at all-- or think that Dorian wanted to hurt him.... His magic began to pool in his palms, rippling over their skin like water.

Qunari skin was rougher than human, it seemed, and the Bull’s nails were really more like claws. Dorian had noticed that some of his fingers weren’t full, that the last two were missing the final joint. His magic coated the missing fingers, and he had a sharp and sudden understanding of the violence that had severed them, the nick in the bone of the Bull’s middle finger that had been part of the same blow. Other things were clear to him as well; the calcification on the Bull’s knuckles that suggested he’d broken them more than once while punching something; the calluses built up by years of harp and guitar; the difference in size between his own hands and the Bull’s.

The Bull was very close to him, he noticed. His _face_ was very close. He was watching Dorian with unsettling intensity, and Dorian worried that he was angry. It would be reasonable, he'd just gotten injured by completely unexpected magic in his own home. If there were to be a first time for the Bull to be truly furious with Dorian, it would be now.

Deciding he'd have to be satisfied with his rudimentary healing, he pulled the Bull's hand up in front of his face. "There, all done. Completely healed. No lasting harm, it won't even scar."

The Bull stepped back, and Dorian let go of his magic, feeling the odd, small sense of loss that always came with releasing the power he’d built up. Bull looked at his hands and sighed. "I like scars," he told Dorian. "They make me look badass." He rubbed the base of his horns. "Well, Ataashi gave me a bit of a scratch, that will have to be a consolation."

"I'd offer to heal that one, but I never got the hang of healing cuts. I've collected far more burns in my research than scratches." He tried to tell if the Bull was in more pain than he was letting on.

"No harm done, Dorian. Really." The Bull was still watching him, expression unfamiliar. "It's just that it's your first time over, I wasn't expecting it to get so... hot." His face cracked into the grin that Dorian _was_ familiar with. It meant, please laugh at my stupid jokes and let me smooth over this awkwardness. Dorian wondered if it was bad that he was so adept at recognizing that particular expression.

"Shut up, you lummox," he griped, glad to be back on comfortable ground. "Where's a plate for these vicious beasts?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian for team mom. Honestly, I run into things all the time, and no one ever breaks out the healing magic for me!
> 
> Also, points to whoever guesses which mage cast the spell in the Skyhold Garden.
> 
> I have battled the twin demons of Computer Problems and Writer's Block, and I have emerged victorious! Aided by my faithful shieldmaiden Uniqueinalltheworld, I have also defeated the dastardly Typo, the villainous Continuity Error, and the fearful beast known as "The Difference Between *Ferelden* and *Fereldan*."
> 
> *Edit, 11/19* I think I should probably translate those texts, yeah? In general at least.  
> -Krem invites Dorian to a party with Chargers and friends. There is also a cat he needs to pet.  
> -Dorian would be delighted to attend.  
> -Dorian is stuck at Skyhold, if Krem wants him there he needs to send a ride.  
> -Krem is ON IT.


	10. I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian learns more about what it means to be friends with the Chargers, and about living in Fereldan, in general.

Bull turned away from Dorian and resisted the urge to sigh. “Can you get the bowls?” he asked instead, waving vaguely at the cabinet to his left. He slid the dragon nuggets carefully onto a plate, listening to Dorian rummage through the mismatched bowls.

“Do you have _any_ plates that match?” Dorian asked, a little petulantly. “Or aren’t chipped?”

“I don’t think so,” Bull responded. “We spend our money on little things like electricity and food, not immaculate dishware.”

“Oh.” Dorian looked embarrassed. “I didn’t think of that. Of course.” He stared at the green bowl in hands, his fingers tracing one of the repaired cracks. It was Bull’s favorite. He hoped Dorian didn’t drop it.

“Dorian.” He sighed. “You know you’d have to work really hard to actually offend me, right? I don’t need to defend my plates’ honor.”

Dorian concentrated on the dishes that he took out of the cabinet. “Just because _you’re_ not offended, it doesn’t mean I’m not being offensive. I don’t need to whine about your plates.” He picked up the green bowl again. “They’re nice plates. The cracks give them personality.” He smirked at Bull.

“Well, if you’re comparing _me_ to broken plates, that’s a different story.” Bull laughed. “Maybe I should be offended.” Dorian laughed with him, and a tension Bull hadn’t realized he was holding onto seemed to ease, just a little.

Rocky came into the kitchen and grabbed the bowl out of Dorian’s hands. Bull snatched it back quickly. “That’s _my_ bowl, and you know it.” He ladled some of the chili into a mug for the dwarf instead. “If you want to eat my homemade vegan masterpiece on my couch and play my video games, you get handles,” he said when Rocky growled. “There will be _no_ more chili avalanches in my living room.” He wiped his hands on his apron with finality.

“They’re Krem’s games,” Rocky sulked, “Are the nuggets vegan? Skinner wants me to ask.”

“He has to ask because he’s a filthy camping cheater!” Skinner bellowed from the living room. “He is banished!”

Rocky shrugged and dipped a dragon in his chili. “It’s the only way I ever win against those girls.” He turned to Dorian, “You should tell them to play a different game. Since it’s your first night, they’ll probably be nice. Bee will, dunno about Skinner or Harding.”

“I’ve played some COD in my day.” Dorian puffed up a bit. “I think I could hold my own.” 

Bull couldn’t help but snort. “Bee’s a a big deal freelance designer. She pretty much built the Ostagar weapon system from scratch.”

Dagna popped in and climbed up on a stool. “She’s amazing, Dorian. She promised to show me some of her coding. She’s my hero. I’m in love. I didn’t realize who she was. I was calling her ‘Bee,’ Dorian, like she’s people!” Ataashi hopped up on the counter and demanded attention.

“Sera’s rubbing off on you.” Dorian wrinkled his nose fondly.

“Not yet,” Dagna mumbled around a dragon nugget.

“You’re not allowed to be in love with her,” Rocky protested, “She’s my wife!”

“I’d like to see you try and beat her at her own game,” Dagna continued, unperturbed. “ _Literally_ her own game, Dorian, by the Stone!” She hopped off the stool and pulled him into the living room.

Rocky slurped his chili noisily. “That’s the violist then?” he asked casually.

“Violinist,” Bull corrected him. Too quickly. Way too quickly. Rocky smirked.

“He’s got a decent mustache, I guess. Too tall for my tastes, but to each their own.”

Bull spooned chili with his best haughty expression. “Go tell Skinner that the dragons are not vegan. That is not a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Rocky swiped another dragon on his way out, avoiding Ataashi’s playful claws of death. “Tell your cat to stop trying to kill me.” 

Bull scratched her under the chin and she purred. Rocky flipped them off. “Don’t spill any chili on my couch!” Bull shouted after him.

Bull filled a bowl of chili for himself and waited for everyone else to file in. Dagna came back with Bee, chattering about Bee’s games. Bull was pretty sure it was the games. “There are more Easter eggs than on the official list right?” Dagna could talk for ages, apparently. “Is it true you’ve hidden a secret word in every game you’ve designed? Can you give me a hint what it could be? There are theories it’s your name? But that doesn’t work. Did you know that some sexist assholes assumed you had to be a guy because of those times you used your initials and that the secret name had to be your wife or daughter or something?”

Bee smiled through it all without a word, handing Dagna two beers and filling two mugs of chili with a wink up at Bull. “It’s not really a big secret, it’s just that no one’s guessed," she said as they left the kitchen. “I’ll give you one hint: She’s the only weapon I use.”

“No way!” Dagna cried, almost dropping the beers. “The M.I.R.A.B.E.L. crossbow? Holy shit! I made a version of that for my Gray Ops cosplay! I was Warden Commander Brosca for like four years!”

Bee laughed. “I fought pretty hard to get her included as a PC. She’s based on a real person, you know? One of the last Warden Commanders before all the feudal systems started breaking down.”

“Do I know about the real Commander Brosca?” Bull could hear Dagna through the wall as they left the kitchen. “I literally have five books about her.”

Krem poked his head in, distracting Bull from whatever Dagna was about to say. “Are you seriously sitting in here alone Chief? Everyone else is out there!”

“Ataashi’s with me,” Bull pointed out. She was back on his horns.

Krem frowned. “The cat doesn’t count. Come on, Chief, it’s a _Chargers’ Dinner_ , you couldn’t love these more if those dragon nuggets were actual dragons!”

“I’m good here for now, really. I was think about making some dessert.” Bull winked at him. “Maybe some… Krem brulee?”

“Please stop.” Krem pulled on his arm until he stood up. “You don’t have to stand guard over the food. Everyone will remember to eat even if you’re not sulking in here to make them feel guilty.”

“I’m not sulking!”

“Then come help me convince the girls to play a game that other people can win!”

The scene outside the kitchen was fairly typical of a Chargers’ Dinner: too many people were piled on his poor, long-suffering couch, laughing and shoving each other, fighting over the three working controllers, leaving the one with the left-veering joystick to Dalish. She was the only one who could make it work (she refused to admit that it had anything to do with magic).

Sera was perched on the windowsill, propping the window open with her shoulder. She always complained that the apartment got too warm when everyone was inside. Dagna was nearby, her attention no longer on Bee, who was still massacring Harding and Skinner on the TV. She was laughing at Sera’s rambling, exuberantly gestured story. 

Bull was aware of Dorian, chatting animatedly with Stitches across the card table Krem had set up with crackers and a few now-empty bottles of wine. Dorian was laughing brightly, as unselfconscious as Bull had ever seen him outside of rehearsal. Without entirely meaning to, he sidled a little closer and tried to listen unobtrusively.

“If you think about it,” Dorian was saying, “Modern medicine, even here in Ferleden, still uses Tevene words as ‘scientific terms,’ so isn’t it a bit hasty to dismiss all that history out of hand in favor of purely mechanical surgery?“ Bull noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled disarmingly. “I certainly see the benefits of an integrated approach, but a well-trained mage surgeon is just as accurate as a scalpel, and can heal the incision in the same minute.”

“But,” refuted Stitches, “the whole concept of ‘traditional medical science’ is rooted entirely in Tevene practices. There are _no_ universities of medicine that graduate non-mage surgeons. Depending on where I work, even with a degree I won’t be more than a glorified nurse.“ Dorian twirled his mustache thoughtfully and asked Stitches a question that seemed to be two-thirds Tevene-accented mystery. Bull decided to give up on following their conversation and just watched Dorian’s fingers. They didn’t seem to stop moving. When he talked, he didn’t touch his mustache, instead he drummed his fingers on the table or crossed his forearms. Bull thought he had very nice arms.

“The old guard is just too cautious of change,” Stitches continued. “They’re shutting down any chance of innovation because it will upset the current power balance.”

Dorian snorted. “You sound a bit like Anders, you know. Innovation is valuable, new ways of saving lives are valuable, but…” he looked a bit hesitant, “there are people out there who say that if magic can’t cure something, than it simply isn’t meant to be cured.”

Stitches waved his beer in a dismissive gesture. “That’s some Black Chantry bullshit right there.” Dorian looked a bit shocked. “The ‘will of the Maker’ is scientific progress and discovery, if it’s anything. People die all the time in this job, and no one in charge wants to take the fall and say ‘yeah, maybe if we weren’t so set in our ways, we could have saved more.’ They’re just worried about saving face. Like _Ceratocystis fagacearum_ , what they used to call the Blight? There are studies in Antiva that have shown actual, repeatable results that it’s not as incurable as it seems.”

Dorian stared at Stitches with an intensity that was uncomfortable even for Bull, off to the side and still pretty much eavesdropping. “You’re telling me that there’s evidence of a cure for Ceratocystis?” His jaw was tight and he was gripping his necklace.

“I know, right?” Stitches looked upset as well, though it was more of a broad displeasure than the specific unhappiness that Bull associated with Dorian’s necklace. “And just because it’s not based at all in magic, the whole medical community treats it like anti-vaxxers’ more awful cousin.”

“They would," Dorian said quietly, and finished his beer. He coughed a little as he set the bottle down. “Excuse me for a minute, Stitches. Nature calls and all that.” Stitches nodded jovially and attacked the last of Krem’s cheese plate. Dorian vanished down the hall into the bathroom.

\---

Experimental medicine, he told himself, working to control his breathing. Experimental, developed in Antiva, probably still in small-scale trials, just the sort of thing that Alexius would never have paid attention to. And even if he had, there was no reason to assume it would have helped Felix at all. Clutching his violin charm so hard that the thin wire strings dug into his fingers, Dorian leaned against the wall, wishing that he’d known sooner, that he could have done something sooner, stopped it all somehow… the familiar feeling of helplessness washed over him. He couldn’t do anything now, hadn’t done anything when it counted.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, noticing the constant dark circles under his eyes that he couldn’t quite hide with make up. His hair was longer than he’d ever let it get before, his cheeks perhaps a little gaunt. Dorian was momentarily distracted by how awful he looked, and then ashamed of that distraction. Why shouldn’t he look sleep-deprived and sad? He _was_. He’d lost his best friend, really his only friend, and abandoned his whole life within the same week. He was living in Ferelden, following something that looked a lot like his dreams, while Felix was the youngest Alexius to grace his family’s ancestral tomb in generations.

His makeup looked tacky and dark in the light above the Bull’s sink, and he rubbed at his eyeliner, then just turned on the sink and washed it all off. He deserved to look like shit, he thought, who was he putting on this show for, anyway? Why shouldn’t he look just as raw and ugly as he felt?

He stared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t even thought about Felix for days before this moment.

If he were in a Tevinter soap opera, Dorian suddenly thought, this would be the point where Felix’s ghost would appear in the mirror and absolve him of all his guilt. He’d say something wise and mysterious before vanishing into the void, or wherever, and leaving Dorian with a new hairstyle and even better makeup as he went out and solved all his problems in an upbeat montage.

Of course, that didn’t happen. But the thought, that it somehow _should_ have, made Dorian consider. Was this a part of moving on? He stared at himself in the mirror a bit longer, meeting his own gaze and refusing to back down.

He sighed and turned away from his reflection, going back to the party before he could change his mind.

He avoided Bull, standing by the bookshelf with a strange expression, and leaned on the couch next to Krem. “What game is this?” He asked, “It looks like Call of Duty?” Half the Chargers dropped whatever they were holding to stare at him. It was intimidating.

“You don’t know… about Gray Ops?” asked Harding with a horrified expression. 

“They don’t sell it in Tevinter,” Krem said, coming to his rescue. “Games about the Gray Wardens always blame the Blight on the ancient Imperium, and the censors don’t like it.” He wrinkled his nose. “Fucking revisionists,” he said in Tevene.

Skinner patted Dorian on the cheek. Perhaps it was meant to be consoling. It felt a little threatening. “Sit here, Shem,” she commanded, pushing Krem off the couch. “We will teach you.”

Dorian complied, nervously. The gameplay was fairly similar to the other COD games he’d played at college, but there was a bit of a learning curve. Especially with the differences between Tevene and Fereldan controllers. And with how many people were on the couch. Eventually, he gave up on excuses and admitted that everyone else was just way too good at the game. But, even if the Darkspawn always seem to kill him while he was boarding up windows, screaming at the TV with Krem shouting instructions in Tevene was a lot more fun than he’d expected.

“This is probably the best version of this game I’ve ever played,” he told Krem in Tevene just before Harding grabbed the controller away from him.

“Well, you’re kind of shit at it,” Krem replied. “You need to die less.”

Dorian flipped him off. Krem just laughed at him and tried to ruffle his hair in retaliation. Horrified, Dorian slipped off the couch to escape, but he’d just moved forward onto the floor. Krem was still able to reach him. Blocked by Skinner’s legs, Dorian had no choice but to submit to this indignity. 

“Man,” Krem told him, “Your hair is pretty awesome. Is it some sort of Altus secret? Do I need to do blood magic to get my hair this soft?”

Dorian snorted and crossed his arms. “No, it’s just common-sense hair care. Blood is a terrible conditioner.”

“Oh, I guess I should return that virgin I got at the Imperium Emporium then.”

“I think that’s between you and Harding, really.” He craned his neck to look up at Krem. “Did you get your sense of humor from the same place Bull did? That’s just painful.”

“No, no, it’s a real place.” Dorian raised an eyebrow skeptically. “They mostly sell bondage equipment. Do you want their number, Altus?”

“Any self-respecting Altus decorates their dungeon with designer torture tools, not off-brand trash from Fereldans with poor naming skills.” He smirked. “Although, I did have to leave most of my things behind when I fled in disgrace.”

Krem laughed. Harding poked him. “I heard my name. No talking about people in languages they don’t speak. Changers Dinner rule three.”

Dorin waved his hand airily at her and got to his feet. “Your _boyfriend_ is making hurtful assumptions based on outmoded stereotypes.” He looked down his nose at them, but couldn’t help a little grin. “What are the first two rules?”

“Rule number one,” Dagna told him with a serious expression, “is don’t talk about Dinners. Rule number two, you do _not_ talk about Chargers’ Dinners. Rule four is have fun and be yourself.”

“Is that reference to something?”

Once again, everyone was staring at him like he’d suggested they dance nude in the chantry. “you’ve never seen _Fight Club_?” asked Rocky incredulously.

“I told you guys, Tevene censors are assholes,” Krem said.

“We are fixing this right now,” Bee announced.

“I’ll make the popcorn!” Skinner bounced up. “Krem, help me find it.” She pulled him into the kitchen.

Bee clapped her hands. “Places, everyone!”

Dorian stared at her. “You have assigned movie watching seats?”

“Not really, it’s just fun to say. We will have to push the couch back a bit, and Bull can’t sit in the front.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Actually, you should sit on the couch too. Better view. This is a very important part of your Fereldan education.”

And so, Dorian found himself pressed up against the warm, shirtless side of the Iron Bull, who had divested himself of the frilly apron at some point. Dorian wasn’t sure if that made it any better. The Bull filled the seat to his left with a steady, quiet presence that Dorian appreciated. He like to talk during movies, sometimes, but he didn’t like people talking to him. Their comments were rarely as clever as his own.

The Bull was so blatantly comfortable in his own skin that Dorian was almost jealous. The Qunari draped his arms over the back of the couch, legs kicked out in front of him. He took up just as much space as he wanted to, and Dorian didn’t really mind that it meant sharing some of his own space. He grabbed a blanket from the growing pile on the floor and cocooned himself, folding his legs up onto the seat on his left, half-occupied by Stitches. With the fluffy blanket as a barrier between their skin, Dorian was emboldened enough to lean into the Bull’s side. He wished Bull would put his arm over Dorian’s shoulder instead of the couch, but reminded himself sternly that that wasn’t the sort of things that Strictly Platonic Friends did. 

\---

Bull loved _Fight Club_ , of course he did. But he could be forgiven for not giving it his full attention this time around. Dorian was quiet and warm next to him, and he resisted the strong urge to pull the blanket-wrapped mage closer to him. Bull liked him (liked him a lot if he was honest with himself) but Dorian was still a bit… unsettled. It was clear to Bull that Dorian wasn’t entirely at ease in Fereldan yet, and he’d as much as told Bull that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. To be fair, that conversation had been a bit muddled, but Dorian had made it clear that he was still adjusting to living openly.

Bull would give him the space he needed. Cuddling on Bull’s couch surrounded by friends was one of the best things _Bull_ could think of, but it also seemed like a thing couples would do. And he would take Dorian out to a fancy dinner to broach the subject of couples, with candles. Maybe Vivienne knew a good place. What if he could convince her to play something romantic--

Dorian poked him in the side, startling him. He hoped no one noticed it, but he knew he was blushing a bit. Dorian smirked up at him, only his head visible in his nest of blanket. This was not good, Bull decided, not good at all. He hadn’t dealt with butterflies like this since the time Leliana made him rearrange the entire rehearsal room to her satisfaction. On second thought, though, this was a very different kind of butterflies. Edward Norton’s nameless character was stuttering in the airplane.

Bull was shameless, and also done for, so he leaned down close to Dorian to hear what he was saying. “I guess I shouldn’t criticize your clothes too much,” Dorian whispered. “You’re just trying to look like Brad Pitt. Where did they _find_ those pants?”

Bull figured answering the question would risk giving away key plot points. “Are you sure Brad Pitt isn’t trying to look like me?” he whispered back. Dorian snorted and poked him again, harder. It tickled a bit.

“Shut up!” Dalish hissed at them.

Bee shushed her. Tyler Durden smoldered on screen. Figuratively.

Dorian made quiet comments to Bull through the first part of the movie. Bull did not manage to be as quiet when he laughed at them. Sarcasm was one of Dorian’s ways of expressing enjoyment, so Bull was happy. 

The sex scenes made Dorian giggle. “I have to assume those are awful to film,” he told Bull, like it was a secret. “Can you imagine anything more awkward? ‘Sorry, hold on a minute, the lighting isn’t quite right, we can see your balls.’ Poor Brad Pitt.” He climbed over the back of the couch and got them each a beer.

The scene with the lye made him squirm and turn his face into Bull’s shoulder. His eyelashes brushed against the Bull’s bare arm, and his breath was warm. Bull took another swallow of beer, but the bottle was empty. He didn’t want to move Dorian in order to get a new one.

Bull was, admittedly, anticipating the reveal, the final scenes, the dramatic ending even more than usual. Dorian was a lot of fun to watch movies with. Bull thought he was probably a bit biased, so he decided to test the theory with more movies later. In the meantime, though, he was looking forward to what Dorian would have to say. As Bull’s favorite scene approached, he looked down at Dorian, who was fast asleep.

He leaned heavily on Bull’s chest, head tilted a bit down, but it was unmistakable. He was even snoring the tiniest amount. Bull faced an agonizing choice. On the one hand, Dorian was missing important parts of the movie. On the other, what if waking Dorian up made him grumpy or embarrassed?

What _was_ Dorian like when he woke up, Bull wondered. He absently stroked Dorian’s hair for a moment, causing the mage to stir slightly. Bull snatched his hand back quickly. On the floor, Krem was saying the lines along with the characters, even Marla. Especially Marla. No one had noticed Bull.

Dorian snuffled softly and curled up tighter in his blanket, his knees pushing against Bull’s thigh. His hair fell across his face, and his forehead was scrunched, like he was looking at an unfamiliar piece of music. Bull, being imperfect and given to certain weaknesses, curled his arm around Dorian and slouched lower on the couch, watching the light from the TV play across the ceiling.

He didn’t wake Dorian up in time to see the rest of the movie. In fact, he blinked and opened his eyes to scrolling credits and whispering Chargers. He’d just have to try again later.

Krem quickly hid his phone, but it was too late. Bull glared, just a little. “We didn’t want to wake you, Chief.” Stitches was giggling and Grim was wearing his version of a smirk. He couldn’t see anyone else. “You two looked like a couple of kittens. You’ll thank us later.”

“That’s a bit of an invasion of privacy, Krem.”

Krem looked a little contrite at that. “I’ll ask Dorian if he wants me to delete it,” he promised Bull, but his twinkle came back fast. “I don’t think he will, though.”

“Dagna left,” Rocky said from somewhere behind him. “Bee took her and the other girls for drinks at that new place down the street. I don’t know if they’ll come back this way.”

“Al’s Pub? Damn, I wanted to check that place out first!” Dorian grumbled and Bull froze, sinking slowly back into the couch. Krem laughed at him, and Bull flipped him off, careful not to disturb Dorian. Being a pillow was hard work. He gave it his full attention.

“Shouldn’t we wake him up?” Krem asked after the rest of the Chargers left.

“Nah, if he’s this tired, we should just let him sleep.”

Krem gave him a look that told Bull what he thought of _that._ Bull didn’t back down, so he shrugged and tossed another blanket over them. “Well, when your leg hurts in the morning, don’t blame me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene censors are assholes. They prevent some really great movies from reaching the Tevene public. On the other hand, they protected innocent eyes from Kirkwall Shore, so...
> 
> If you want to come say hi on Tumblr, [come to my blog!](http://auditorycheesecakes.tumblr.com/) there's not a lot of writing stuff, but maybe you can guilt me into a more regular schedule. I'd appreciate it.  
> Also, more shameless self promotion: Uniqueinalltheworld and I have begun another joint venture, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4952989) so if you like me, or her, or our other project, it's not really like any of those. Check us out!


	11. In the Middle of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things need to be talked about, like harps, candles, blood magic. Other things require less talking.

Dorian woke suddenly to darkness, an unfamiliar sound, and a sharp pain in his leg. A brief panic later, he realized that Ataashi was standing on his lap, kneading his leg with her very tiny, very sharp claws. Next to him, the Iron Bull was snoring, a loud, gentle sort of rumble. Dorian had shifted during the night, and was pressed up against the Qunari, curled up on the seat, his knees tucked over Bull’s leg. He could feel that his hair and moustache were scrunched beyond repair, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The Bull’s arm was heavy and warm across his shoulders, his large hand pressed against Dorian’s ribs, holding him firmly in place. 

Dorian hadn’t slept this close to another person since his childhood, but he’d always assumed that it wouldn’t have been comfortable anyways. Too close, too much touching and unfamiliar smells. 

Dorian often found himself over-sensitive to the way other people smelled, like it was some sort of sensory invasion of space. The Bull smelled a little like lemon oil, understandable with his harp; he also had a vague essence of “cat.” Underneath that, a scent Dorian was unfamiliar with, something that he’d never encountered. He wondered if it was Qunari in general, or the Bull in particular. It was a surprisingly restful scent, really.

Ataashi stared up at him with wide green eyes, purring loudly in a way that Dorian felt was a bit too confrontational. Cautiously, with his free hand, he stroked her back and she arched into it, stabbing her claws deeper into his skin. With a wince, he pushed her gently onto the cushion beside him. Let her rip that to shreds. He had to pee.

Carefully, he extricated himself out from under the Bull’s arm. Light filtered into the apartment through the one large window, and Dorian found his way to the bathroom, one hand on the wall. He didn’t turn the light on, and avoided the mirror. He knew he looked a mess. He did pilfer a swig of mouthwash, and run a hand through his hair, because he wasn’t a savage.

How long had he slept on Bull’s couch? Everyone else was gone, Krem was presumably asleep in his room. Why hadn’t Dagna woke him up when she left? For that matter, why hadn’t Bull? How did the movie end? He hesitantly made his way back to the living room, unsure of what to do. Should he leave? Wake Bull up? Leave a note? He made his way back to the living room with no small amount of trepidation.

Bull was awake, but hadn’t moved. Ataashi was curled up on the blanket Dorian had left behind. They both watched Dorian from the couch, striped in yellow light from the streetlamp outside. Bull stretched widely and sat up. Dorian, feeling sheltered by the dark hallway he was in, watched his muscles. It was late, and he was a weak man.

“It’s a little after 3 am,” Bull told him. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

Dorian considered. The idea of facing the morning, no makeup, no hair product, not even his own toothpaste, was a bit nerve-wracking. He often avoided Dagna before he’d had a chance to put on his face. The idea of showing that side of himself to Bull, and Krem as well, was intimidating. But the early-morning darkness felt like a shield, and it made Dorian feel uncommonly daring. 

“Don’t bother.” He waved his hand, attempting for airy. “I’ll just crash on your couch until the buses start up for the morning. You don’t even have to give me breakfast.”

Bull rubbed his knee and fixed Dorian with a stern look. “Of course I do,” he said. “Can you imagine what Vivienne would do to me if you showed up to rehearsal in less than perfect condition? She’d eviscerate me.” Ataashi butted her tiny head against Bull’s hand until he scratched her under the chin.

Dorian chuckled. “No, no, she wouldn’t risk getting blood on her shoes. She’d just freeze you solid.” 

“I think she’d risk it if she thought someone hurt you,” Bull said thoughtfully. Dorian scoffed. Bull frowned. “You don’t believe me, I know, but she would. A lot of us would. You’re part of the SSO now.” Dorian stared at him. Apparently, Bull felt braver in the dark too, or maybe he was just sleep talking. Dorian didn’t know how to respond. “Either way, though, you’re staying for breakfast. You _need_ to try Krem’s strawberry pancakes. Coffee, eggs, the whole thing.” He hadn’t moved off the couch. Dorian would never admit how nice that sounded. Not out loud.

Dorian, still buoyed by the protective dark, crossed the room and sat back down. He curled his legs under him, facing the Bull. Ataashi turned to him and indicated that he should stroke her. “It’s all for the best,” Bull told him, “My knee’s being a bit persnickety.”

“Who even says persnickety?” Dorian scoffed. He watched Bull’s hands. “Is it because you slept sitting up?” he asked. “You could have moved me, you know. Or woke me up sooner,”

“Nah, it pretty much always sucks.” Ataashi ascended the back of the couch and perched on Bull’s horns again. 

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking. Was it from… when you were younger?” Dorian smoothed his mustache nervously, hoping he hadn’t overstepped. He also hoped he was wrong. The sense memory of healing the burn on Bull’s hand, the vivid moment of understanding just a tiny piece of the violence that filled the Bull’s past-- it made him nervous. And angry. Protective, even. Best not to look too closely at that feeling. The Bull was talking.

“Nothing to do with the Ben Hassrath at all,” he assured Dorian with a small smile. “I dropped a harp on it.”

“Was the harp okay?”

“No, not really. My knee, and a full flight of stairs, not the most survivable experience.” Bull laughed.

Dorian leaned forward. “You have to tell me the whole story now, you know.”

“Obviously. It was actually how I met Cassandra. I was doing small gigs, like moving furniture. My best-paying job was as a bouncer at the Herald, while I was looking for something more permanent. She needed someone to move her harp into her new place, and got in touch with me.” He leaned back on the couch. The cushions dipped, tipping Dorian a little closer. 

“I was being a bit of idiot,” the Bull said with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I was so excited to touch a harp again that I didn’t pay attention to where I was walking. I missed a step and just tipped over backward--” He demonstrated with his hands. “I went down, the harp went down on top of me. Somehow, I didn’t hit my head too hard, but the frame landed right on my kneecap.”

Dorian winced. “When did you learn to play, then?” he asked. “Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you just ‘pick up’ somewhere.”

“One of my better foster homes,” he said with a shrug. “Sometimes the system doesn’t just work, it gives you exactly what you need. Miss Tama was more than a foster mom, and she gave up a lot for me and the other kids.” He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “Of course, I got put back _into_ the system when she got put in the hospital. And because the system’s fucked, I wasn’t able to track her down until last year. It was too late. Memory issues. One of those things they can’t even fix with magic.” His words were clipped and his voice seemed too small for him. “I go to see her sometimes, but I can never tell if she really recognizes me.”

“I’m sorry.” Dorian put a hand on Bull’s arm, feeling less than useless. Bull covered it with his own and smiled sadly at Dorian. His eye was a little watery.

“Yeah, life kinda sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?” Dorian nodded. Bull pulled him into a one-armed hug, and they sat quietly for a few minutes.The strange spell of the darkness was still lingering, feeling soft and intimate. Dorian leaned his head against the Bull’s shoulder, breathed in his oddly comforting scent, and tried to sort out his feelings. He felt for Bull, wanted to protect this usually hidden side of him, felt privileged to see it. Acknowledging this, even just to himself, felt dangerous. He’d never had to deal with feelings like this, without the safety of knowing nothing he was imagining was actually possible. How was he supposed to deal with being trusted with these intimate, painful parts of Bull’s past and not _feel_ things?

He could feel the Bull’s heartbeat against his side, steady and deep. Was this what romance felt like? Was he mistaking friendship for something more? He was familiar with the swoops his stomach was doing, he knew how to recognize a crush veering into far more dangerous territory. The worst part was, it all felt so one-sided. Sometimes Dorian felt like he wasn’t making the whole thing up, like there was some sort of… reciprocation. But he didn’t trust himself enough to believe that.

“Anyway,” Bull said just as Dorian was beginning to spiral, “Cassandra felt so bad about breaking my knee that she had me over to play her _newer_ harp once I was mostly healed, and practically _orchestrated_ my hiring at SSO.” He smirked. Dorian rolled his eyes, but smirked back. “Best thing that ever happened to me, in a way.”

“Who knew harps were so dangerous?” Dorian said. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“Only when it’s raining, or cold, or I don’t massage it for a few days. If I step wrong or stand wrong. So pretty much all the time.” Bull shrugged. “That’s the thing about chronic pain. I used to hike a lot, you know. Climbed every damn mountain I could find. Now I’m always watching out for uneven ground. Slipping or stepping wrong can screw me over for at least a day. But don’t tell Cass. She still feels guilty.”

“Do you use heat or ice?” Dorian asked impulsively. “For the massages. I know it’s pretty different, but Felix had a lot of muscle pain. I got rather good at massages. I could give you one, you know, if you wanted.” He stopped talking, feeling very awkward. Bull had shifted to look down at him, so he stared straight ahead, not meeting the Qunari’s eye. The darkness didn’t feel so much like a barrier any more. He could feel his cheeks heating up.

“Magic massages?” Bull sounded teasing, but Dorian wondered if he could detect a bit of hesitancy in his voice. What would it mean if he could?

“The temperature is magically induced, yes.” Practical spellwork and theory were easy topics, talking about that meant he didn’t have to admit he just really wanted to touch Bull. _More than that._ His inner voice sounded a lot like the way Felix used to tease him. _More than just_ touch _him_. He cleared his throat. “It’s a fairly basic spell, it used to be used in combat in the more violent Ages. But if you modulate the power, destructive fire and ice spells have been proven to work well in conjunction with many traditional healing magics--”

“So basically, you’re saying you have magic fingers?” Dorian smacked his side, and Bull laughed.

“Just give me your damn knee.” With a grunt, Bull turned on the couch and lifted his leg across Dorian’s lap. Dorian tried to concentrate on his magic, but-- “Hot or cold?” he asked, pleased with himself for not squeaking. He was touching _a lot_ of Bull.

“I alternate, but I usually start with heat.” Right then. Dorian rubbed his hands together and held them over Bull’s knee, focusing all his attention on his magic instead of the many, many places he was now touching Bull. _Burning the Bull would be very, very bad,_ said little Felix, talking over tiny Halward’s indignant sputtering. _Do try to ___not _do that._ Dorian ignored them both.

Qunari knees, luckily, weren’t much different from humans. Dorian, for all his lack of proper training, was secure in his knowledge, if nothing else. Was it silly of him, he wondered, to be so nervous about touching the Bull? He’d just woken up next to him, it was hardly some dramatic new form of intimacy. He put his hands on Bull’s leg with determination. 

The source of Bull’s stiffness, he realized, wasn’t the injury to his actual kneecap, though he could sense the healed fractures. They looked like a glowing spiderweb in his mental map of the Bull’s leg. He prodded gently at the tendons in the back of Bull’s leg, feeling for tension. He found it. “Try to relax your leg,” He huffed at Bull. “Straighten it as much as is comfortable. Don’t worry about putting weight on me.” 

The Bull complied with a gratifying lack of complaint. “Good,” Dorian told him. He hadn’t thought that the Bull needed to be directed in how to receive physical contact. “Twist your foot slowly away from me,” he said, concentrating on the shift of muscles under his hands. “I want to see if I’m right about something.” 

He was. Most of the tension was held in the Bull’s calf muscle, which had compensated for the lack of strength in the knee. That exacerbated the imbalance between the Bull’s legs and made it much more likely that the muscle would seize occasionally. It couldn’t help, he noticed, that Bull’s knee was slightly swollen. 

He told Bull this absently, letting his magic guide his fingers. He actively resisted the urge to overthink his movements, trusting that the habits he’d formed helping Felix would carry over. Even if Bull was much more… muscular than Felix had ever been, and so much more distracting. 

Dorian let a low-level healing spell out through his fingertips. He wasn’t going to be able to really fix anything, obviously, but he was satisfied to feel the tightness subside slightly. He hummed to himself, falling into a focusing mantra Felix had taught him. 

  


“What are you saying?” The Bull had to ask after a few minutes. Dorian’s quiet murmuring broke off with a startled squeak and he quickly pulled his hands off Bull’s knee. The soft green glow around his fingers vanished like a bubble popping, and they were plunged back into darkness. 

Bull wanted the light back. Dorian had looked so peaceful and focused. Bull, being the romantic idiot he knew he was, had wanted that moment to last longer. A moment that Dorian hadn’t even realized was happening, probably. A one-sided moment. He wished he hadn’t said anything. But he had. “You’ve kinda been talking in Tevene for a while now. I was just wondering what you were saying. Sorry I broke your concentration like that.” 

Dorian chuckled. “It’s just a rhyme I picked up from Felix while he was trying to become a doctor. It’s useful for remembering muscles and bones and such." 

“Oh.” Bull scratched at his nose, admiring the way the semi-darkness outlined Dorian’s profile. “Well, it’s beautiful.” Dorian went absolutely still. 

“It’s just a rhyme. ‘The tibia’s connected to the medial malleolus,’ and all that.” His chuckle was shaky rather than dry. “Hardly anything special.” 

“Nope, it sounds nice.” Bull was feeling stubborn. “You have a nice voice.” 

Dorian scrubbed a hand over his face. “You have to stop that.” He sighed. 

“Stop what?” The Iron Bull was genuinely confused. 

Dorian sounded about as exasperated as he ever got. “Complementing me. Going out of your way to be so nice. You know, _flirting_. It’s a fun joke, but it’s beginning to wear thin.” 

“I mean, I wasn’t really joking, but if it gets on your nerves, sure.” Bull did his best not to sound as disappointed as he felt. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. “I can stop.” 

Dorian stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then his fingers fluttered over his mustache, hiding his face. Abruptly, he began to laugh. “Of course.” He shook his head into his hands. “Naturaliter, fui iniuriam. quoniam non actum fuisset a iocus. Ego sum tam stultus.” 

“You know, it’s kinda tough to have a real conversation when you won’t speak a language I can understand.” 

Dorian peeked one eye out from behind spread fingers. “Apparently, we haven’t been speaking the same language at all.” He lowered his hands and turned slowly to face the Bull, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled ruefully. “You were serious about the flirting?” He was blushing, the Bull saw, his cheeks and ears darkening as he looked steadily up at his one eye. 

“Yes.” What else could he say? 

“In that case…” Dorian leaned forward, putting a hand on the Bull’s shoulder. A small shock of static electricity jump between them, and Bull watched Dorian’s eyes carefully. He could feel his pulse in his missing fingertips. Dorian smiled a bit wider, still hesitant. “In that case, you wouldn’t be terribly offended if I were to kiss you?” 

Bull smiled back and kissed him instead. 

Dorian’s left hand tightened on his shoulder, and his other came up to cup the Bull’s cheek, softly, but his nails scraped slightly on the Bull’s skin. Bull leaned over, doing his best not to press too hard against Dorian’s leg, or his lips, which were so, so soft. 

Dorian pushed at his shoulders, and Bull let himself fall back against the arm of the couch, Dorian’s hands hovering at his horns, his shoulders, his neck, light touches that made Bull shiver and close his eye. He breathed in Dorian’s scent, soft and minty, his breath light against the Bull’s lips. For a first kiss, Bull thought, there was actually very little kissing going on. 

Dorian didn’t let that stand for long, though. He pressed harder against Bull, demanding his full attention. Dorian kissed the way he played his violin: with an excellent grasp of technique, and his own personal flair. And just like his music, Bull loved it. Bull trailed his hands up Dorian’s sides, privately enjoying the chance to finally touch him. He moved and breathed against Bull, making small noises of encouragement. Using these clues, Bull learned _fascinating_ new things about him. 

Dorian liked it when Bull held the back of his neck or ran his fingers through his hair, which Bull had been wanting to do since the first time Dorian sat in front of him at rehearsal. He got a bit caught up in it, twisting the soft dark locks between his fingers. He wondered briefly if Dorian would mind it if he pulled, but was distracted by Dorian’s lips moving away. He started to open his eye, but tipped his head back again as Dorian mouthed at the side of his neck. 

He liked it when Bull pulled him forward by his hips, and when the Bull experimentally spread his hands over his waist. Mangled left hand and all, Bull’s fingers wrapped over on to his stomach. They were hardly close to touching, but Dorian sighed against him, his rib cage expanding and sinking with his sudden deep breath. The Bull felt like he was holding onto something fragile, something he could break, even while he felt Dorian’s muscles shifting under his hands. He was reminded of something his Tama used to say about holding the ocean in your fist. 

Dorian did _not_ like being tickled, and pushed himself up against the Bull’s shoulders to glare at him. Bull did his best to look sheepish and took his hands away from Dorian’s sides. “I didn’t say stop touching me.” He looked like he was trying to be annoyed, but a smile slipped through. Bull looked up at him, lit softly by the early dawn light-- was it that late already?-- and was struck by how beautiful he was. And Bull was reminded, once again, that he was a fucking romantic, and Dorian’s smile was going to kill him someday. 

“Where should I put my hands then?” He couldn’t help running his fingers up Dorian’s sides again, making him wriggle and grumble. 

“Wherever you want, just be decisive about it!” To demonstrate his point, Dorian placed his hands firmly on the Bull’s chest, pressing his fingers against his tattoos. A wicked gleam lit up his eyes suddenly and he trailed his fingers teasingly over the Bull’s abdomen. Bull raised his eyebrow at him. 

“I’m not ticklish,” he informed Dorian with a smirk. “But it’s good to know that you are.” He slid a hand down Dorian’s back, and then up under his shirt, scratching at his spine with a nail. Dorian’s back arched, and his mouth opened a fraction to draw in a long breath. “Decisive, huh." 

They were still sitting on the couch, though Dorian leaned over him, sort of sideways. He’d crowded the Bull into the corner where the arm met the back, and maybe, if the Bull just pulled him over a touch… So he did. Dorian squawked in surprise when Bull sat up and pulled him onto his lap all at once. The flush on Dorian’s face, and the fact that he pulled it off, made Bull grin wider. 

Dorian settled himself, straddling Bull’s legs with a twitch of a smile that said he knew _exactly_ how good he looked doing it. He draped his arms over the Bull’s shoulders and leaned in tantalizingly close. “Hmmm, this _is_ better.” He kissed Bull again, sweet and lingering. He pressed them together from hip to collarbone, hands holding the Bull’s head in place. For his part, Bull held him close, a hand between his shoulderblades, and drank in every sound and breath that Dorian let escape. 

The Bull wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, trading kisses and soft touches. He felt like time should have stopped for a bit, just as a courtesy, but knew it probably hadn’t. There was something fragile about the moment, unplanned and undiscussed, like it could vanish in a heartbeat. Dorian smiled down at him with a wicked gleam in his eye. Bull had been enjoying the slow, warm build of arousal, but with a sudden jolt he realized just _how_ turned on he was. 

“You like being on top?” Bull asked, and would have winked, but that would have meant missing the way Dorian’s cheeks stained even darker, and his conflicted expression. 

“Is that where we’re going with this?” The Bull felt the way Dorian’s fingers tensed, and then actively relaxed, the brief flutter of uncertainty that crossed his face. “Tonight?” 

The Bull gentled his grip on Dorian’s hips. “Not if you’re not into it. And besides, I’m not really a first date kinda guy.” Well, sometimes he was, but… “And it’s not really nighttime anymore, is it?” He turned to look at the clock, “It’s pretty close to morning, really.” When he met Dorian’s eyes again, the uncertainty had broken through his nonchalant mask. 

“Is that what this was?” he asked. “A date? I mean, I’m not precisely an expert, but aren’t they usually more…” He shrugged, “one on one?” 

“Depends on the tone you’re trying set, probably. And the person you’re with.” Bull thought Dorian was trying to seem more nonchalant than he really felt. “I bet you’d go in for fancy food and expensive wine, yeah? A real classy joint, with a maître d' named Umberto and a menu entirely in Orlesean so I’d have to ask him what everything was.” 

Dorian giggled. “Umberto’s an Antivan name.” 

“So? He’d have to know Orlesian to work there.” Bull didn’t focus on the way Dorian’s laughter seemed to affect him more than anything else so far. “I’d have to wear a tux too, I bet. Just to get in the door. I promise I won’t knock over any of the candles, though.” 

“Are there a lot of candles at this imaginary restaurant of yours?” Dorian teased him, one hand roaming over his shoulder onto his chest. 

“Fucking everywhere,” Bull assured him earnestly. “It’s probably not a date without a ton of candles.” 

Dorian laughed again. “I wouldn’t know.” He smiled. “But it sounds nice.” He leaned down to kiss the Bull again. 

“Dorian, you have been on dates before, right?” Bull regretted the question _while_ he was saying it. Dorian didn’t look too pleased either, and Bull’s stomach plummeted as he saw genuine hurt shuttered away behind a self-deprecating shrug. 

“You know what Tevinter’s like.” Bull did. “Going out wasn’t worth it.” 

The Bull was a little overwhelmed by the sudden rush of heartache. He tugged Dorian down against him in a rough hug, startling them both. “Man, I am gonna date the _shit_ out of you.” 

He couldn’t see Dorian’s face, but he felt the way he… laughed? Snorted in derision? The Bull wasn’t sure he hadn’t made a complete idiot of himself. It was possible that Dorian wasn’t looking for anything more than a fling. It surprised Bull to realize that he was. 

Bull loosened his arms reluctantly, preparing himself to let go all together. But Dorian didn’t pull away immediately. “You don’t have to,” he said quietly. “This,” he gestured to the small space between them, “hardly constitutes a commitment.” 

Bull looked down at Dorian’s hair, which was as close as he could get to looking him in the eye. “It could.” Dorian tensed, but still stayed put. The Bull waited. He wasn’t about to press, but… well, he wanted to. It wouldn’t hurt to admit that, just to himself. 

Dorian sighed deeply, but didn’t say anything. “Is that wise?” he asked finally. His voice shook. “Are you sure you want to tie yourself to _me_ of all people? The screw-up mage from Tevinter that Josephine only hired out of pity? My best friend died so I decided to flee the country. That’s not healthy, and I could do something like that again. What if you need something, and I’m not there, what if I hurt you, and just leave? I’m not good Bull, I’m weak and scared of the world, and I’m not good for anyone. I’m not worth it.” His voice rose steadily, and he balled his hands up, grabbing fistfuls of blankets twisting them. He pushed himself off the Bull’s chest and stared him down, eyes welling up. 

The Bull kept an arm loose around him, but brushed down his back in slow, soothing strokes. Dorian’s shirt caught on his fingertips, slightly sweaty, and his brow was furrowed anxiously. “Hey, now, I like the guy you’re saying that shit about.” Dorian rubbed at his eyes with a groan. Bull put his hands lightly on Dorian’s cheeks, so he could turn away if he wanted to. He didn’t. 

“Your… Felix, your dad, Tevinter being a homophobic shithole, all that. I don’t know all the details, obviously, but you’ve been through some shit. And that affects the way you see the world. You don’t have to apologize to me, or anyone, for that.” 

“It could have been worse,” Dorian mumbled. 

“Sure, it could have been, but you don’t have to be grateful that it wasn’t." 

Dorian was still straddling him, sitting ramrod straight across his thighs. Bull gently coaxed him off his lap and back onto the couch, tucking a blanket around him, and an arm around his shoulders. He still held Dorian’s hand. “I never met Felix, but if you were half as good a friend to him as you’ve been to everyone here, If _he_ was half the person you deserve, I’m sure he’d want you to do what’s best for you.” 

Dorian breathed harshly through his nose. ‘My father said the same thing, once, but he meant something very different.” He gripped Bull’s hand hard, and turned toward him. “Everyone told me that Felix would want what was best for me, but Felix was the only one who knew that what was best was leaving. He didn’t know how right he was. My father found some old ritual, and tried to make me… better. Straight. Not me. He taught me that blood magic was barbaric, a shadow of Tevinter’s shameful past, and he _used it_ on me!” 

Dorian was as angry as Bull had ever seen him. He wasn’t speaking very loudly, but hissing the words with powerful venom. “And I stayed.” His voice broke then. “I went to live at Gereon’s, I stayed with Felix until the end, but. I stayed there, knowing that he might try again, even if he said he was sorry, he might try again. But I was so afraid of the alternative, of the future, that--” The Bull rubbed his arm, soothingly. “I never told Felix.” Dorian said quietly. “He would have done something dangerous, tried to do something to my father…” Bull wouldn’t have blamed him. 

He’d always gotten angry too easily. Tama had said it was because he grew up in foster homes, that the constant uncertainty had made him quick to strike back against anything threatening. It had been an appealing part of the Ben Hassrath. Stability. If he knew what to attack, he could direct all his anger to that. 

He had nothing to attack now. His hands were balled tight enough that his missing fingers cramped up. The idea of blood magic, used on Dorian-- he wanted to rip something to shreds. He breathed deeply through his nose, unclenched his hands. There was nothing here to fight. Just Dorian, jaw tight and eyes bright. Just Dorian, who was still talking. 

“So, yeah, you could say I’ve been through some shit, but it was my own fault. I put myself in these situations, set myself up for--” 

“Woah, woah, woah. I’m gonna stop you there. You’re not responsible for what happened. That was entirely your dad being a piece of shit. That wasn’t your fault. _He_ failed _you._ ” He held Dorian’s face in both hands, wiping at an escaped tear. “Dorian, you’re not a failure for not leaving sooner. You wouldn’t even have been a failure if you stayed. You did good getting out. It doesn’t matter how or when.” Dorian made a strangled little sound in his throat and leaned forward to kiss the Bull again. 

His lips were salty and his eyelashes were wet, and it wasn’t so much a kiss as a grab. Dorian’s eyes were closed, and he pressed against Bull with his whole body for a long heartbeat. Bull breathed him in, holding him close, fingers in his hair. Dorian pushed his face into the crook of the Bull’s neck and clutched him like he thought he might lose him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into the Bull’s skin, “I just didn’t know how else to respond.” He chuckled wetly. “What am I supposed to say to that?” 

“You don’t have to say anything.” The Bull kissed his forehead, and they just sat there for a while. With Dorian close to him, breathing even and soft, both hands curled loosely around one of Bull’s, he felt like something had clicked into place. 

At four-thirty in the morning, after spending all night on the couch, the Iron Bull made a decision. He _was_ going to date the shit out of Dorian Pavus, and he was going to do it right, and do it well, and make sure nothing else in his life made him cry like that. 

Dorian started to snore. The Bull chuckled, and gently moved out from under Dorian. He didn’t wake up, so Bull carefully slid a pillow under his head and tucked the blanket tighter around him. He kissed Dorian’s cheek, softly, and saw his eyelids flutter. “I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.” He told him. “You go back to sleep.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look we're only 11 chapters in and they kissed already?? WOW this story moves SO FAST.  
> Fun parts of writing this chapter included imagining (relatively) tiny Iron Bull taking harp lessons from a little old elf lady. He was very earnest and committed and totally her favorite student. And then I made myself sad because he got less than a year of them.
> 
> When Dorian's mumbling in Tevene, he's basically saying "I'm so good at life. Of course I got it entirely wrong."
> 
> Special thanks this chapter go to my roommate (though she'll never read this) for letting me use her knee issues as Bull's, and of course to [Uniqueinalltheworld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld) for her invaluable beta skills.


	12. I Am The Entertainer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee, compassion, concerts and champagne!

Dorian watched the Bull walk down the hallway, confused. This wasn’t how it usually went. _Usually_ he had real one night stands, with all the actual sex and leaving right afterwards that he could stomach. He did not usually get kissed within an inch of his life, utterly swamped with emotion, and then tucked into bed on the couch and just… left. It really was a very strange end to the whole night.

He groped around for his phone, for lack of anything better to do. There was a long string of confusing emojis from Dagna, interspersed with partial sentences. What kind of message was a ghost, a fire hydrant and a high-heeled shoe meant to convey? In between inexplicable cat faces and eggplants, she did manage to communicate that she had left him at Bull’s. Well. He never would have figured _that_ one out for himself.

He texted her back, telling her that he was fine, not expecting a reply any time soon, and watched the beginnings of the morning filter in through the window. 

He must have dozed off in his warm cocoon, because he woke up to Krem wandering past with a vague grunt, wearing just a tank top and boxers. In his waking haze, he had the bizarre thought that Krem was just as vulnerable as he was. Well, no, if he was being honest, Krem was _much_ more vulnerable without his binder than Dorian was without his makeup and hair gel. The implicit trust in Krem’s causal acceptance of him took Dorian a bit by surprise. It quieted tiny Halward hissing about his deplorable appearance and replaced it with a strange mix of gratitude and camaraderie. 

_Vishante kaffas_ , he was never going to tell _anyone_ about this sudden surge of sudden surge of brotherly affection. What was the world coming to?

Krem emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee. He set one down a coaster in front of Dorian and pushed his feet off the couch. “I’m sitting here now.” He informed him, and Dorian sat up with a groan. Krem stole one of his blankets.

They drank their coffee in silence for a bit. Krem brewed it the way they did in Tevinter, dark, with cinnamon and chili and a mix of other spices that Dorian hadn’t tasted since he left home. It woke Dorian up faster than most Fereldan coffee did.

“Krem,” Dorian tentatively broke the drowsy silence, “can I ask you an invasive and personal question?”

Krem snorted into his coffee. “That’s a delicate way of putting it.”

“I mean, you left home because…”

“Because I’m trans, yeah. Well, that’s the short version.” He took a long drink of coffee and watched Dorian out of the corner of his eye. Dorian wondered if Krem felt the same jolt of fear telling him that he felt when he passed a group of drunk, laughing Fereldan men late at night and desperately hoped he did not.

“Do you still talk to your family?” The question was quieter and sadder than he’d intended and Krem patted his leg roughly.

“I call Pater on his birthday. He makes my mom sign a card for mine and on First Day.”

Dorian nodded and pulled the blanket tighter around him.

“So,” Krem said after a bit. “I get to ask _you_ an invasive and personal question now.” Dorian eyed him warily, distrusting the grin sneaking across his face. “You and Bull were out here pretty late. What do you think, Altus, am I going to have to wash the couch cushions?”

Dorian could feel himself blushing. “What? No!” He stuttered a bit, and snapped his mouth shut. 

Krem slurped his coffee loudly. “Huh, shame. You need to get laid.”

At that moment, the Bull shuffled through the room and into the kitchen. Dorian groaned and buried his face in his hands. Krem poked him. “I’m serious,” he said, thankfully in Tevene, “You’re always wound so tight. The chief could help with that.” Dorian wished he could melt into the couch.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, so I hope you’re playing nice.” Bull said, and sat in the arm chair with a truly massive mug. He breathed in the steam wafting off it and squinted at Krem.

“I’m playing _very_ nice.” Krem informed him. “I even brought Hothouse here coffee.”

“Hothouse?” Asked Dorian.

“Yeah, we decided that’s your new name last night.” Krem drained his coffee. “Since you’re, y’know…” he waved his hand at Dorian’s entire self.

“Ah, yes. Of course. What an articulate argument.”

“Ugh, shut up.” He stood up and stretched, his back popping as he swung his arms from side to side. “Do you want pancakes or not?”

“Obviously.” Bull grunted. Apparently, that meant they all had to move to the kitchen, and Dorian grumbled all the way to the stool, and then slumped on the counter. He steadied the blanket around him with a tiny spell, keeping it pinned at his shoulders. He’d perfected this long ago, only his hands and head outside the warm bundle. The Bull tugged it gently. “You look like a magician from another Age.” He grinned.

“I look like a mess,” Dorian grumbled under his breath.

“Naw, you look like magic," Bull said causally, like it wasn’t one of the strangest, most touching compliments Dorian had ever received. 

Krem made gagging noises and spooned the pancake batter into a frying pan. “Get a room.”

“Are you offering yours?” Dorian poured himself more coffee.

Krem shot him an unimpressed look. “That’s even grosser.” Dorian leaned across the counter and poured Krem more coffee too.

Krem’s pancakes were just as good as Bull had promised, and the three of them leaned on the counter and chatted for a while. The Bull’s hand roamed over Dorian’s back, down his arm, occasionally onto his thigh. He leaned into the touch, enjoying the contact while it lasted. The Bull would come to his senses soon enough.

Dorian thought it might be a sign of improvement, of his mental health and his life in general, that he wasn’t freaking out. Casual contact, breakfast, why, it was positively _domestic_ , and and so completely, utterly outside of his expectations, that somehow, he felt perfectly calm. Or perhaps he was just too overwhelmed to react properly, and would eventually regain the proper amount of incredulity. For now, he drank his coffee and listened to Krem and the Bull teasing each other, and filed away every sensation and smile. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, they’d kick him out and this surreal, dreamlike experience would be over.

He’d be back in his own apartment and his eyeliner and his _right mind_ , and put this whole confusing chain of events behind him. He and Bull would go their separate ways, be civil to each other, friendly, even, and Dorian would be back on solid ground. It might have been the most bizarre one night stand he’d ever participated in, but he had no idea what else it could be.

The problem, of course, was that part of him believed every word the Bull had said. A small, naive, hopeful part of him wanted to go to that fancy restaurant, out in the open and everything. It was pure foolishness, and Dorian wished he could forget about it.

But the Bull was right next to him, laughing with him, leaning on him, and looking down at him with so much softness in his unscarred eye that it hurt Dorian to look away.

He grabbed his violin out of the hallway closet and the Bull drove him home, and Dorian had the uncomfortable realization that the minivan was comfortable. It was familiar, it was warm, it reminded him of the Bull. It was still sort of ridiculous and definitely, resolutely unsexy, but somehow had wound up part of his routine. He knew how many people could cram into the back seat (between four and seven, depending on how many were elves) and the most comfortable way to sit in the oversized front seat. He knew that Cadash was a horrific backseat driver, not to even _think_ about drinking something other than water in the van, and that Bull was the only one able to slam the trunk heard enough for it to stay closed.

Dorian was experiencing a very odd form of nostalgia. Could you be nostalgic for something you’d never really had? 

Bull pulled up to the curb and Dorian grabbed his violin from the back seat, aware of the Bull’s warmth beside him. The Bull had been quiet for most of the drive, but he hadn’t stopped smiling. Dorian turned to open the door and the Bull caught his wrist. Dorian looked up at him, a little nervous. One of his neighbors walked by and Dorian waved jerkily at her, keeping the Bull in the edge of his vision.

The Bull waved at Ms. Vallen as well and smiled at Dorian. “Relax, I’m not going to give you a blow job in the middle of the morning or anything.” Dorian could feel his ears and neck heating up because he _hadn’t_ been thinking about _that_. The Bull laughed and ran a finger along Dorian’s jaw. 

He hadn’t _planned_ on scandalizing the the neighborhood, but a quick glance proved there was no one else out on the street, so Dorian decided to throw caution to the wind. He kissed the Bull swiftly, pressing their lips together for the space of a breath before slipping out the door. 

A few months ago, so many things about this moment would have been unthinkable. But Bull caught Dorian’s eye as he closed the door, and his smile opened something in Dorian’s chest. Fuck it. When was the last time something had made him _happy_?

Deep breathing and focus kept him from sprinting to his apartment, and he heard the Bull’s van start up as he closed the door to the building behind him. The Bull always waited to make sure he got inside safely, Dorian realized, and he viciously stamped down the foolish smile he could feel spreading across his face.

He brushed passed Anders on his way up the stairs and tumbled dramatically onto the couch. Dagna was already up, with the gleam in her eye that meant she’d drank at least three cups of coffee in the past half hour.

“Everything alright?” She was sketching in a notebook, her laptop open on the coffee table. “You look a little… well, you’ve not got any makeup. Did Krem and Bull feed you? I’ve got some coffee going if you want it.”

“I’m fine.” Dorian didn’t feel fine. He felt jittery and full of emotions. It had been too long since he’d had real Vintish coffee, if it was still buzzing around his veins like this. “Dagna, you’ve had girlfriends, right?”

“Yes...? Pretty much exclusively?” She looked at him over the top of her sketch, brow furrowed.

“And it’s… fine? You can go to places together and, y’know.” He waved his hands in the air, hoping he was illustrating some sort of point.

“Go on dates you mean? Yeah.” She didn’t seem concerned, so Dorain figured he wasn’t acting in too concerning a way. “Is it really so bad in Tevinter?”

Dorian picked at a feather sticking partway out of a cushion and pushed the words around the tightness in his throat. His voice was rough and he paused every few words to breath through his nose. But he wanted to tell her, he realized. Dagna was sharing her life and her home with him, she deserved as much honesty as he could give her. It took a long time, but he told her. 

His voice broke on words like “hide,” and “father,” and “blood magic,” and he stared at the pillow in his hands. He was twisting it, nearly ripping it, but he couldn’t make himself let it go. His breath was loud and shaky, and he was painfully aware of Dagna’s eyes on him. He didn’t meet them, not wanting to see the pity. He didn’t want pity. He wasn’t sure what he did want, but it was never that.

Dagna was quiet for a bit. “Well, shit. Orzammar was plenty awful, but that’s a whole other kettle of nugshit. Want some coffee?”

Coffee was better than pity, Dorian supposed. Dagna was unusually quiet, and Dorian appreciated the space she gave him, didn’t ask him to fill it or try to fill it herself. Space was something he had here, he realized. 

“Dorian,” Dagna broke the silence suddenly. “If I ever meet your dad, I’m not responsible for what happens. He might get lit on fire somehow. I don’t know.” She went back to her computer.

 

Somehow, Dorian had forgotten the date of his first performance. Somehow. What was he becoming? How did this happen? The only thing he could think of was that the Iron Bull was so distracting, he’d somehow seduced Dorian away from his job, and life’s purpose, of playing the damn violin. This was terrible. How was his judgement so clouded?

The performance was a week away, and he didn’t even have a tuxedo. He called Vivienne, and did his best not to hyperventilate while on the phone with her. He didn’t entirely succeed. He wound up at one of Skyhold’s most exclusive tailors, sharing champagne with Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana, doing his best to keep up as they chattered in Orlesian. It was a little mean of them, really.

But, Vivienne had excellent connections, Josephine had excellent taste in champagne, and Leliana had _excellent_ taste in shoes. Patent leather, full-grain, _suede_. Intricate wingtips and medallions, beautifully understated oxfords, shoes with buckles and broguing and all the details he hadn’t even realized he’d missed. He was never shoe-shopping in department stores ever again, he told them a little tearfully. Leliana patted his hand with a consoling smile and Josephine brought out a box of chocolates.

The tuxedo was more a difficult experience, emotionally. He had to _rent_ it.

“It is a difference.” He told Vivienne as they drove to her house for dinner. “Is it strange that some parts of it are only hitting me now? That I probably _won’t_ ever have the same sort of life that I did in Tevinter? I suppose I always took some aspects of it for granted.” He wondered if this was a silly conversation to have in Vivienne’s sleek silver convertible. There were some similarities to his old life, to be sure, but this was really just being lucky in friends. Very lucky.

And it was hardly the sort of thing he could talk about with Dagna, or Krem, or Maker forbid, _Sera_. They’d laugh at him, and rightly so, perhaps; Sera would punch him.

Vivienne just gave him a look. “Yes, dear. Sometimes, things change. It can be quite jarring, I understand.”

“Yes, but sometimes they change so _much_.” It was, admittedly, not his most eloquent argument.

“Vivienne,” he said as he carried his bags, and hers, up the steps, “do you suppose I could have a future in Ferelden?”

“I certainly hope so, since you’ve come all this way.” She lead him to the kitchen and poured two cups of whiskey. It burned a bit going down. “Confidence is a better look for you than this, darling. What’s brought this on?”

“I suppose I’ve realized that I _was_ thinking of all this-- the SSO, Ferelden, all of it-- as temporary. But it’s not. And that’s a bit disconcerting, really. I’ve already passed the point of no return, yes, but I’ve only just now realized it.”

“And now you’re wondering if you’ve made some sort of awful mistake.” She leaned on her immaculate granite countertop and watched him with dark, inscrutable eyes. “You’re wondering if you’re capable of everything you’ve set yourself up for, or if you’re going to crash and burn horribly. Maybe not tomorrow, or soon, but someday. If you’re going to fail.”

“I take it you have some familiarity with the feeling?”

“My dear, people have been expecting me to fail since before I began to succeed. The key is to not let yourself expect it as well.”

“Well that’s certainly a nice way to tell me to get over myself.” Dorian considered pouring himself more whiskey. It had some sort of griffon creature on the label. 

“Don’t be obtuse, Dorian," she snapped. He was briefly but intensely reminded of Mae, and the way she’d smack him and Felix for being idiots. “Surely you are able to recognize commiseration.”

Yes, well. Maybe he occasionally needed it pointed out to him. They drank their whiskey in silence.

“I think you’ll do quite well, you know.” 

Dorian reached out tentatively and grasped Vivienne’s hand, wondering why he was never able to find the words he wanted when he actually needed them. She looked at their clasped fingers for a moment, and smiled at him with a softness she rarely showed. The world felt a little safer and more right. They drank a bit more whiskey in her sleek, modern kitchen, a white orchid between them instead of any words. Glamour and strong emotion don’t always sit well together.

“Does the Iron Bull have anything to do with this sudden crisis?” she asked, after they’d taken off their shoes and sequestered themselves in her surprisingly cozy living room.

Dorian sighed. He must be rather transparent. “I can’t reasonably deny that feelings have… developed.”

“That is evident to anyone with eyes, darling,” she sighed at him with an indulgent smile. “The dear thing positively sparkles when you are in the room. He’s terribly smitten.”

Dorian could feel himself flushing. “Yes, well, it seems I may be as well.” He didn’t have to look at Vivienne to know that her smile had probably widened into something a bit frightening. “Don’t look at me like that.” He groused into his empty tumbler. He needed more whisky. “What am I supposed to do now?”

 

One thing he could do, one thing that was easy and in control and made sense, was play the violin. Perhaps he was a bit chilly to Bull during rehearsal, but he snapped at Cole by accident too, and he heard Bull usher away an incensed Sera with a whispered, “remember how you felt before your first show here?” And if Bull wasn’t entirely right about Dorian’s inner turmoil, he was not entirely wrong. The performance was only days away and loomed closer every hour and it was _terrifying_.

The hand that found its way to Dorian’s shoulder during breaks was warm and comforting, though, and he would sometimes squeeze the wide fingers before he brushed them aside to make room for his violin. When he did, Bull squeezed back, and Dorian could feel himself smile.

 

The night of the performance, Dorian was very calm. Really, he was. He stood in the wings, lined up with the rest of the violins and breathed slowly through his nose. When they filed onto the stage, he was swept up in a massive roar of sound, the burst of applause overwhelming.

He kept his eyes on Josephine, bowed when everyone around him did, and kept breathing. That was all he could do.

It wasn’t until Josie raised her baton and he set his bow to the strings that the tension finally eased out of him. In the space between two heartbeats, it all clicked, and the music happened. This, Dorian thought as he drew his bow across the body of his violin, curved his fingers into the neck, _this_ was what he practiced for. The rush of pulling sound out of wood and metal, the magic that had nothing to do with ice or fire and everything to do with the way his heart was racing and the eyes of the audience on him, the way he raised his arm in sync with the woman next to him, how the hours and hours of practice came together in a string of moments that just felt _right_. Dorian loved being part of beautiful things.

The set began and ended with two pieces that Varric had written specifically for the SSO, neither long enough to be a true symphony, but long and involved enough that Dorian appreciated the breaks in between the movements. Varric knew how to use an entire ensemble, that was for sure.

The second piece was a favorite of Dorian’s, a Haydn trumpet concerto, and Cullen always put a wonderful amount of emotion into the final allegro. Dorian hadn’t been sure about him at first, really. Cullen had seemed distrustful of Dorian’s Tevene connections, held onto old-fashioned sensibilities about magic, and occasionally talked over the string players, including _Vivienne_ , which Dorian simply could not fathom, so there had been rocky interactions between them in the past. In general, though, Cullen was among the less self-centered trumpet players he’d met, and delivered when it mattered. The music was what mattered.

The real high point for him, and this had surprised Sera, who expected him to be constantly looking for reasons to be offended, was Vivienne’s concerto. Mendelssohn was _made_ for Vivienne. She embodied a specific kind of icy grace most of the time, and Dorian did admire that about her. But give Madame de Fer a stage and a song and the change was incredible. “Passion” was a good term for it. “Majesty” another. That concerto might be a popular repertoire piece, but Dorian had never seen anyone inhabit it the way Vivienne did. It made Dorian a little misty every time.

As always seemed to happen, the concert seemed endless in the moment and abrupt when he looked back on it. He stashed his violin and went out into the lobby to mingle with the adoring crowd, and find someone to talk into giving him a ride home.

Dorian wasn’t actually expecting anyone from the audience to recognize him. He might have been making a name for himself in Tevinter, but ‘Dorian’ wasn’t the first Pavus a concert-going Fereldan would think of. In addition, this show had been part of a charity function, so there were plenty of people milling around in tuxedos and evening gowns. One Vint in a suit hardly stood out. He had just grabbed a glass of champagne and was headed towards Vivienne’s sparkling group of admirers when he heard someone call his name.

“Dorian Pavus?” The accent was distinctly Tevene, and the voice achingly familiar. “Is that _Dorian Pavus_?” He turned around and got an armful of tall, blonde ‘vint. Maevaris Tilani grabbed his face in both hands. “You disappear without a word to anyone, you haven’t called in _months_ and I find you at a concert having done _this_ to your hair?” She clucked her tongue at him.

Dorian hugged her. “My hair is fine, Mae.” He did his best to sound offended, but found himself blinking back tears. She tugged him over to a couch and waved a waiter over to bring them more champagne. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“My husband’s cousin is in your orchestra! Your pianist, if memory serves. My dear boy, you’ve done so well for yourself!” She beamed up at him, and Dorian was buried in home-sickness and guilt.

She held his hand in both of hers and her expression turned serious. “Dorian, as a family friend, I feel obligated to get a few uncomfortable things out of the way before we can talk about pleasant topics.” Dorian’s gut clenched, anxiety brewing in his mind like a thunderstorm. “Your parents’ excuses are wearing thin. Everyone knows they’ve lost you, and after this,” she gestured to the concert, to the SSO, to everything, “well, there’s likely some… aggressive recruiters on your horizon. Not me,” she assured him quickly, “I’d never make you go back there. But there’s a reason you might want to.”

Dorian stared at her, completely uncomprehending. She looked nervous and apologetic, which was not an expression he’d ever seen on her face before. “There’s an… investigation starting.” She said. “Into your father. Some of the house staff at the Quarinus estate have come forward about him using blood magic… on you.” There was a distant rushing sound, like a train or the world ending. His vision blurred and grayed, the only clear point Mae’s anxious eyes. He gripped her hands and breathed through his nose, praying to the Maker, and the Old Gods and every member of the Dalish pantheon that he could think of, that he didn’t fall apart right there. 

Mae, and how he wished that she could somehow _stop talking_ and also _tell him everything_ , paused until his vision widened again. She’d never gone easy on him when he got like this, but she was more careful with him than anyone in his family ever was. “You could testify.” She said when his death grip eased and he stopped grinding her expensive diamond rings into her fingers. “He’d be behind bars for good. The family name would be _slightly_ ruined,” she admitted with a tiny, wry smile, “But you’d be free.”

Dorian kept staring, not sure what he could, or should say. “I’m sorry for springing that on you here,” she said, glancing around at the chattering guests, but no one seemed to be paying them much attention. “Think about it, alright?” Dorian nodded mutely. “Now, take a moment to breathe, and then tell me _everything_. What’s it like working with _the_ Madame de Fer?”

Dorian took a few deep breaths, and sorted himself out. Felix had once said that compartmentalization was no way to live one’s life, but Dorian had always found it helped him maintain conversations when he could waste time panicky and nauseous. He could think about… the rest of it later.

 

Bull was pleasantly buzzed. Really, the free drinks were the only good things about these after concert meet-and-greets. With a glass or six to hide behind, he could ignore the racist assholes who said oh-so-funny things like “I didn’t realize the Qunari cared about fine music!” and “You play so well considering…” He wasn’t in the mood to indulge, or even fuck with, any of them, so he looked around for someone he knew.

Josephine and Vivienne were easy to spot, but surrounded by a gaggle of fawning socialites who would probably be even ruder than the idiot he was currently dealing with. Cullen was being cornered by a pair of lascivious women in physics-defying heels and grins that even scared Bull a little, so he started heading that way with vague thought of rescue when he caught sight of Dorian.

Dorian was sitting on an out of the way couch, _very_ close to a blonde woman who Bull had never seen before. Dorian laughed at something she said, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. She giggled and put a hand on his shoulder, where it stayed. Bull felt a strange shiver of displeasure. He wasn’t sure if it was some new form of jealousy (which he was _not_ used to experiencing) that made him read tension in the line of Dorian’s neck. In any case, he sauntered over and dropped down next to the woman.

She turned to him with a startled expression, and Bull appreciated that she didn’t recoil or turn up her nose. She did say, with a cultured Tevene accent and a hint of a question in her voice, “I’m sorry, ser, but we’re in the middle of a long-overdue reunion--”

Dorian stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Mae, this is the Iron Bull, I told you about him?” The rush of expressions that flitted across Mae’s pretty face were equal parts entertaining and alarming. She finally settled on something Bull might describe as “fascinated concern.”

“That’s me,” Bull agreed, and finished off his champagne. A waiter came by and Mae commandeered his entire tray of glasses. Bull listened to Dorian and Mae talk, sometimes in Tevene, sometimes in Common, about the SSO, about people Bull had never heard of or recognized from the news or some of Vivienne’s playbills. He matched both Dorian and Mae drink for drink, though Dorian only finished one glass in the time they were sitting together. Bull found that nearly as concerning as the strange tension that he still read in Dorian’s shoulders and face, but he didn’t bring it up until Mae had said her giggling goodbyes, kissed Dorian on the cheek and extracted a promise that he would stay in touch. "Make sure he doesn't forget," she told Bull as she was ushered away by a gruff dwarf who smiled and steadied her with a soft hand on her waist.

He didn’t actually say anything though, because when he stood up to find the bathroom, Bull realized he’d had a lot more to drink than he thought. He swayed a little on his feet and Dorian scrambled upright with a worried look. He put a hand on Bull’s upper arm. It felt warm through his tuxedo jacket, and Bull smiled. “Are you alright?” Dorian sounded concerned, which was very sweet of him. “You don’t look very well.”

“I’m… hmm. Drunker than I thought, apparently.” He sat back down. Dorian sat next to him, still with that same worried crinkle between his eyes. Bull chuckled. “If you keep making that face, it’ll stick that way,” he told Dorian with a grin. “And that’d be a damn shame.” He rubbed Dorian’s forehead gently with his thumb and Dorian jumped back like he’d been shocked. 

Dorian looked around the room with a panicked expression, and Bull felt like shit. Dorian took a few deep breaths and after a few minutes looked less like he was going to heave all over the fancy leather couches. “Sorry,” Bull tried to convey a lot in one word. Not just that he was sorry for touching Dorian unexpectedly, but also that Dorian had to deal with so much anxiety, and… well, he was sorry. “I forgot that--”

“Kaffas, Bull it’s not your fault!” Dorian snapped. He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “I’m just on edge.”

It was Bull’s fault, at least a little, but he didn’t argue. It made sense. The fancy suits and overt snobbery probably reminded Dorian of home, and all the shit that went along with that. “Want to get out of here?” He asked. Dorian looked at him like he’d just suggested that dragons were somehow _not_ awesome. “You’re stressed, I’m drunk, we’ll both be happier somewhere else.” It made perfect sense to him.

Dorian looked conflicted for half a second. “Alright. Let me get my violin.” 

Backstage, Bull grabbed his duffel bag while Dorian located his coat and violin. There was no way Bull was wearing a tuxedo longer than he had to. His post-show bag always had chocolate, an energy bar, and _comfortable_ clothes. He’d gotten his jeans on and was working (slowly) on the buttons of his flannel when he heard Dorian clear his throat behind him. Bull turned around with a grin. 

Dorian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears were flushed dark, and he had a tight grip on the handle of his violin case. “Do you often strip in the middle of empty theaters?”

“This isn’t really the _middle_ of the theater.” Bull left off on the buttons and slung his bag over his shoulder. “And I wasn’t _stripping_. You know, I think that question says a lot more about you than it does about me.” They were alone now, so Dorian didn’t flinch when Bull cupped a hand around the back of his neck. He just blinked up at Bull with a small smile. “Got something on your mind?”

“A few things.” Dorian leaned up and kissed him, which Bull hadn’t been expecting. His lips were dry and soft against Bull’s, and his free hand traced across Bull’s skin under his shirt. Bull was slow to react, and his hands were empty again before he realized it. He liked when Dorian kissed him, but this habit of running away right after was going to have to change.

“Where did you park?” Dorian asked over his shoulder, with that same small smile, and Bull followed him. He was drunk, and yes, a hopeless goddamn romantic, but he might just follow that smile anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible? Is a *plot* moving forward? Is *emotional growth* happening? Oh MAN guys, I don't think I can handle it!
> 
> If you're interested, Cullen played [Haydn's Trumpet Concerto E flat Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3nHgW5Pwag) and Vivienne played the solo in [ the Violin Concerto E Minor OP.64 by Mendelssohn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1dBg__wsuo). (Please listen to Hilary Hahn she is an amazing violinist and I am genuinely in love with every single one of her performances)
> 
> As always, massive, MASSIVE thanks to my beta and writing partner [ Uniqueinalltheworld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld%22). She's the U in Team AU and is always so great and works so hard <3


	13. Maybe It's Only Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important parts of important conversations, small robotic dragons, and movies as avoidance tactics.

Dorian stepped out into the cold, and heard the stage door swing closed behind Bull a minute later. The breeze that whipped past his ankles could be called bracing at best, but it cleared his head a little. He pulled his suit jacket tighter, wishing he’d brought a scarf, at least. Bull’s minivan was parked down the street. A small miracle, considering that parking was always so tight near concert venues. Bull followed him towards it, humming under his breath.

Dorian headed instinctively for the passenger side and waited for Bull to unlock it. “Y’know,” Bull said suddenly, close enough to Dorian’s ear that he jumped. “I really had a bit too much to drink. Here’s my keys.” He dangled them directly in front of Dorian’s face.

Dorian stared at Bull’s keychain-- car, apartment, mailbox, small pink plastic battle axe, of all things, and then back at the Bull, who smiled serenely down at him. Dorian had never seen anyone other than Bull so much as touch the driver’s-side door. Bull shook the keys at him with a grin. 

Dorian sighed and took them. Or, he tried to. Bull lifted them over his head with a frankly maniacal snicker. “Seriously? Just give me the keys. It’s freezing.”

Bull shook the keys again, just out his reach. “What, too short?” Dorian made a half-hearted attempt to jump up and catch them. Bull laughed at him. Very rude. 

Dorian would have crossed his arms if he weren’t holding his violin case. He pouted instead. He’d been expecting to get into a heated car soon, after all.

Bull leaned down and draped an arm over Dorian’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “I _could_ be persuaded to give them to you, I guess.” Maker, Bull was like a furnace. His shirt wasn’t even buttoned and Dorian could feel the heat of his skin through his jacket.

Dorian leaned into that warmth, just a little. “I’m fairly certain that you were the one who suggested that I drive.” 

Bull ignored that. “You can have the keys for… one kiss.” He proclaimed. Dorian snorted inelegantly and ducked out from under his arm.

“What a hardship.” He leaned against the van. It was still difficult to make a minivan into an alluring backdrop, but Dorian was a professional. And Bull crowded up against him, so really, the car wasn’t as important as the wide hand on his waist and the look in Bull’s eye. Focused, Dorian might call it. 

Bull leaned over him, still smiling. “Is it a deal?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and rested a hand lightly on the back of Bull’s neck, tipping Bull’s head down to meet his eye. He could feel himself smiling. “Deal.” Dorian said, but he didn’t move.

Bull leaned down and kissed him without further prompting, pressing him up against the cold metal of the car door. Dorian shivered, leaning into the warmth of Bull’s body instead. He slipped his free hand down from Bull’s neck, across his chest. He wrapped his arm around Bull’s waist, inside his open shirt, and moved his palm over soft skin. He ran his fingertips across the faint lines of scars and Bull’s comforting solidity. His violin case knocked slightly against his hip when Bull moved even closer.

Dorian still felt a little shaky. His feet were cold and part of his head was still spinning from Mae’s news, but Bull was so warm, and held him close enough that Dorian could almost pretend that the rest of the world didn’t matter. Bull tasted like champagne, and when Dorian deepened the kiss, biting just a little at Bull’s lower lip, he made a sound too quiet to be anything except a sigh. Bull had one hand on Dorian’s hip, another cradling the back of his head, his touch almost too light. 

Someone whistled loudly, and Dorian jumped away from Bull, heart hammering. He backed up against the car again, and Bull straightened to look over his shoulder. Dorian couldn’t see Bull’s expression, but he knew his own was probably pinched and more than a bit panicked.

Whoever it was, they continued on their way, a solitary figure in a dark coat. Dorian took deep breaths of cold air, trying to slow his racing heartbeat before Bull noticed anything was wrong. 

“Keys, then?” He said, voice a little tight. Bull handed them to him without a word, and Dorian slipped out from under his warm shadow. 

“Hey Dorian,” Bull leaned one shoulder against the van, and Dorian was annoyed that somehow _he_ looked good doing it. “You should take me back to my place, for a drink or something.”

Bull grinned widely, and winked in that ridiculous way of his. Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?”

“I’m trying to.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Get in the car.”

Dorian circled the hood of the van, but to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t really sure it was a good idea that _he_ drive either. It had been a while, and Bull’s minivan didn’t handle like the sports cars he’d driven in Tevinter… Bull clambered in, and put his feet up on the dashboard, crossing his hands behind his head He clearly did not intend to move any time soon. Dorian got into the driver’s seat with no small amount of trepidation.

Once he’d adjusted the seat so that he could actually reach the pedals, he encountered another problem with this poorly-thought-out plan. “Well, even if you’re no good as a chauffeur, I hope you can navigate.” Bull made an affirmative noise, and then began to snore. _Venhedis_.

He pulled out his phone, and racked his brain for the Bull’s address. Coming up blank, Dorian stared at his hands, his heart suddenly beating far too quickly. He struggled to even his breathing. What was even happening to him tonight? Was his entire life some sort of twisted joke? He finally began to feel comfortable in Ferelden, and his past came knocking on his door. He opened himself to the frankly terrifying possibility of a _relationship_ and he couldn’t even get the man home.

Deep breaths. That was all he could do. He practiced the breathing techniques he’d looked up on line and wondered vaguely if there were ways to get anti-anxiety medications without Fereldan insurance, not that thought was the least bit helpful in the moment. The one time he’d suggested therapy to his parents, he was shut down with such aggression he’d never dared to bring it up again. But now… it was just one more thing to deal with _later_ he reminded himself. He’d gotten into this car, he had to go somewhere with it.

He knew his _own_ address, at least. “All right, Taurus,” he muttered, “let’s hope I don’t get us killed.” Even if all that happened tonight was taking care of a drunken Iron Bull, it would be a good distraction from the problems brewing in Tevinter.

 

Bull wasn’t too happy when Dorian made him get out of the car and carry his duffle bag up three flights of stairs. But Dorian was warm and solid and talked to him in Tevene with a dry, affectionate tone. He was pretty sure it was Tevene. He couldn’t understand a word of it.

Dorian’s tux felt expensive under Bull’s hands, hard to hold onto. His arm slipped off Dorian’s shoulder and down around his waist more than once. Dorian moved it back with a huff the first couple of times, but left it there as he fumbled with his keys.

The apartment was dark and Bull tripped over a pile of books before Dorian flicked on the light. There were books everywhere, he realized, even more than usual. The tall shelves were empty, their contents strewn in piles across the floor and low coffee table. Dagna’s beat up old laptop and Dorian’s sleeker one were both on the table, next to mugs of what was almost definitely coffee.

“Sorry about the mess,” Dorian said, putting his violin case carefully on an empty shelf. “Dagna was looking for a specific quote for a paper and then we decided to update our shelving system.”

Bull put his bag down where no one would step on it and crossed the room as carefully as he could. He sat on Dorian’s little loveseat with a relieved sigh, stretching his arms out across the back. Dorian brought him a glass of water, a small smile on his face. “Do you usually just hand your keys off and then fall asleep?” he asked Bull.

“Not usually.” Bull patted the cushion next to him, and Dorian rolled his eyes. But he took off his suit jacket and curled up against Bull anyways, taking his laptop off the table and scrolling through a long list of movies. Bull wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. The actions felt natural to him, but there was a note of tension in the way Dorian held his shoulders. “What are we watching?”

“Something mindless.” He put on some sort of Tevene sitcom, then stopped it, then started it again with a sigh. There were subtitles, but Bull didn’t feel like focusing enough to read them. Dorian didn’t seem overly invested either, fidgeting and pulling a blanket around the two of them, wriggling until he was able to look up over his shoulder at Bull’s face.

The champagne was still making Bull fuzzy and a little slow. Fancy clothes suited Dorian, he thought. He watched Dorian unbutton the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, rolling them carefully up over his elbows, then pull off his dark bow tie and loosen his collar. “You have tattoos?” Bull managed to not grab at Dorin, brushed his fingers over the edges of the abstract lines on Dorian’s forearm. Sure, Dorian wore long sleeves most of the time, and still complained about being cold, but how could Bull have missed them?

Dorian chuckled. “It can’t be that much of a surprise.” It shouldn’t have been, maybe. But the ink was surprisingly bright, red against Dorian’s dark skin, and Bull wondered if there was some meaning in the lines, or if they were just meant to be beautiful. Dorian pushed his sleeve up further, and raised his arm, turning it so Bull could see the whole piece. “I found the design while I was researching necromancy in the Old Imperium for a history paper.” He shrugged. “I modified it a bit over a couple years, but it stays fairly true its magical roots.”

“Necromancy? Like, zombies and shit?” Bull couldn’t really imagine Dorian raising corpses-- well, actually, there was something strangely fitting about it. He’d do it in style, for sure.

“Just in theory. Necromancy was outlawed by the Ostwick Convention in 11:50 something or other. This was a history class, not a practical spellcasting course.” On the screen of Dorian’s computer, a family of elaborately-dressed Alti had a dramatic conversation with lots of close-up shots and surprised expressions.

Bull watched the muscles shifting under Dorian’s skin. “And tattoos like this are magic?”

Dorian snorted and laced his fingers with Bull’s, draping their arms across his stomach and leaning back against Bull. “Relax. There are all sorts of rituals and and incantations involved in making a magical tattoo. This is just plain ink.” He smiled over his shoulder at Bull. “That’s part of what I was researching. It could have just been superstition, like alchemy or astrology. But the traditions surrounding this pattern held significance to the mages who developed it, and sometimes in magic that’s what matters, though modern practitioners do like to crow about their mathematics and sorcio-physical theories.” He shrugged, like he wasn’t sure Bull cared about it. 

Bull did care. Maybe not about the magic in particular, but he cared about how Dorian smiled when Bull traced the lines down his arm, and about how Dorian sighed happily when Bull ran his thumb across the back of Dorian’s hand. He pressed his lips to the back of Dorian’s neck, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and bow rosin. Dorian shivered a little.

“It’s pretty,” he told Dorian, and could practically feel the massive eye roll that elicited.

“It’s meant to be _meaningful_.” Dorian grumbled, but he still smiled.

“Not mutually exclusive,” Bull said, “Like you. You’re pretty; you mean a lot. Y’know, to me.” Real smooth, The Iron Bull, real smooth. It got a chuckle out of Dorian at least. He still held himself a little tensely, and Bull rubbed the hand Dorian wasn’t holding over his arm and shoulder. He relaxed against Bull’s chest, a bit at a time. 

The episode ended, and Dorian turned toward him. He raised a gentle hand to Bull’s jaw, fingers curling cautiously under his chin, and Bull leaned into the touch. Dorian’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled, and his hand moved from Bull’s jaw to his neck, tracing the muscles in his shoulder. Bull pulled him closer, the blankets bunching between them when Dorian clambered into his lap. Bull was reminded vividly of the last time they’d done this. He rested his hands carefully on Dorian’s waist, and Dorian’s fingers gripped at the side of his face and the base of his skull, holding him still as Dorian leaned over him.

He knelt across Bull’s thighs, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, teeth scraping against Bull’s neck hard enough to make him shiver. Bull closed his eye as Dorian’s hands moved across his ears, over his horns, came back to frame his face and guide their mouths together. Dorian tasted a little like chocolate, for some reason. His lips were warm and soft against Bull’s, but Bull couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

“You doing okay?” He asked. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, y’know. Not if you’re not up for it. I know it must have been pretty weird to see your friend again--”

“Do we have to talk about that right now?” Dorian’s mouth twisted in displeasure. Bull felt a hand trailing across his chest, but held Dorian’s gaze until it stopped. Bull watched his posture shift, the way he looked up through his eyelashes and leaned towards Bull. “I would rather do anything except talk about Tevinter right now,” he said, soft and sultry like his hand wasn’t tense against Bull’s skin.

“Alright, let’s get some food and not talk about it.”

Dorian blinked. “Aren’t we in the middle of something?” He looked confused.

Bull took Dorian’s hand off his chest and rubbed his thumb gently across his palm. Dorian eyed eyed his fingers like they might secretly be snakes. “Look, Dorian, I don’t want to do this if you’re not totally into it. I’m not down for being a distraction, not tonight.” Dorian opened his mouth like he was about to argue, but then looked down with a guilty flinch. Bull tried to soften his expression. “Besides, I’m still kinda buzzed. Makes me hungry. and sure, we _could_ keep going, but wouldn’t you rather have dinner?”

Dorian watched him cautiously for a long moment before nodding slowly. “I suppose. But it’s Ferelden out there, you know. Very cold.”

Bull pulled out his phone and tapped Dorian lightly on the nose with it, laughing at the way his forehead wrinkled. “Good thing I know which places deliver, then. Do you want Antivan? There’s a good Rivaini restaurant around too.” 

Dorian rubbed his nose and looked skeptical, but eventually nodded again. “I like Rivaini.” He offered cautiously, like he was feeling the idea out. “And I never saw the end of Fight Club?”

Bull smiled at him, and was rewarded by Dorian smiling back, shyly, but more genuinely than he had so far that night. Dorian kissed him, lightly, and slipped off his lap. “I’m going to change, then,” He said, still sounding a little unsure, and picked up his violin case and suit jacket, vanishing into his room with a quick look over his shoulder.

Bull briefly considered following him, but the restaurant answered the phone, and then Dagna walked in while he was ordering, and then he saw the robotic dragon the size of a small mabari puppy under her arm. They didn’t actually watch a movie until long after the food had been eaten, because everyone (just Bull, really) was too caught up in the _dragon_. He spent a long time building obstacle courses out of books to test its maneuverability and the very basic AI that Dagna had installed. And of course, now they were morally obligated to watch a movie with dragons in it, weren’t they?

They built a nest out of every cushion, pillow, and blanket in the small apartment, and Dorian settled sideways across Bull’s lap without a second thought. Dagna used his outstretched legs as a backrest and carefully placed the dragon (now named Maleficent, and to Bull’s great disappointment she didn’t actually breathe fire) on the floor in front of them. Bull wrapped an arm around Dorian, who was happy and warm against him, and smiled down at him. Dorian caught the tail end of the look and grinned right back at him.

Dagna fiddled with Dorian’s laptop, hooking up a pair of speakers and settling it carefully on a stack of books in front of them. She had a lot to say about people from school, especially Frederick, who was both her nemesis and the reason she had a robot dragon. Bull didn’t pay full attention to what she was saying, because Dorian kept smiling at him. Something small and light settled in Bull chest.

Bull liked Maleficent the dragon. It was clear that she was supposed to emulate a high dragon, a Vinsomer specifically, and he was impressed that he was able to recognize the species even without any colors of any sort. Dagna had welded small horns curving forward on its head, and spikes on its tail, which Dorian complained about halfheartedly. He didn’t think the spikes boded well for the future of their coffee table. Now that Frederick’s presentation was over, Dagna was going to keep the dragon in the apartment. Bull was massively jealous.

“I’m going to have to come over more often just to see Maleficent,” he told them, making Dagna laugh and Dorian smirk and roll his eyes. He leaned against Bull as they watched an animated kids movie about dragons (totally awesome) and dozed off during a documentary about dragons (equally awesome). 

He turned his face into Bull’s chest, and held tightly onto the arm that Bull wrapped around his waist. Dagna looked over at them and snorted. “Don’t wake him up,” Bull shushed her. She smirked at him, but didn’t say anything. 

The two of them watched the rest of the documentary in companionable quiet, Bull making a conscious effort not to move or talk too loudly, even though it was some of the best footage he’d ever seen of wild dragons. A lot of species had been driven to extinction in the past Age or so, thanks to industrialization and destruction of habitat and all that. Most of the dragons that were still around were kept in carefully protected preserves and constantly monitored. He knew this because he’d spent one summer in his early twenties trying to sneak into a protected area. It hadn’t gone well.

They ended their movie night after that, Dagna pushing them up off the blankets so she could remake her bed and go to sleep. Bull considered just carrying Dorian to bed, but his knee protested the idea of lifting another person after sitting in an imperfect position for so long. Dorian grumbled against him, but stood up on his own, mustache completely wrecked.

He stared at the pile of pillows for a bleary moment, then at Bull. His eyes flicked briefly to the loveseat, before he shook his head and took Bull’s arm. “I guess you’ll have to stay in my room,” he said. His voice was a little scratchy, but he met Bull’s gaze head on. “We should both fit in the bed, if you want to share.” The edges of his lips curled in a smirk and he ran his fingers over Bull’s forearm.

Bull stepped towards him, leaning down to kiss that smile. Dorian’s arms found their way around his neck, as they often seemed to do, and Bull got caught up in the way his his hands fell instinctively to Dorian’s waist. These movements were becoming familiar, and Bull had a fierce want to memorize them.

Dagna cleared her throat in the hallway, and Dorian’s fingers curled abruptly against Bull’s back. He didn’t spring away though, just turned to her and said something that Bull didn’t quite catch. He was distracted by the way one of Dorian’s hands slipped inside his shirt and down his back to rest lightly on the small of his back, and then a little lower.

Dagna gave them a knowing smirk and vanished again, and there was nothing for Bull to do except bundle up the heavy quilts on the floor and follow Dorian to his room.

Dorian’s bedroom was dark and small, and Bull leaned back against the door to give his eye time to adjust. More bookshelves, he saw quickly, and plants on the windowsill. There was desk with a mirror and an array of cosmetics, no clothes on the floor, a music stand in the corner where sunlight would fall on the pages, and a modest stack of musical scores on the shelf closest to it. 

And there was Dorian, wearing nothing but a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt. He’d been wearing that all night of course, but Bull hadn’t had a chance to properly appreciate the view. His back was to Bull, broad for a human, his shoulders were really gorgeous, Bull knew. And was there anyone who’d seen Dorian and not stopped to admire his ass? Just for purely aesthetic reasons, at least.

The thin silver chain around Dorian’s neck caught Bull’s eye for a split second before Dorian slid it over his head. The necklace, along with Dorian’s rings and the small gold studs he wore in his ears, vanished into a small box on the desk, which snapped closed with a decisive click.

Bull spread the quilts over Dorian’s bed. It made sense that he’d have such heavy blankets, since he complained about the cold so much. He tucked the corners in carefully, before turning to Dorian. He hadn’t moved from the desk, just stood watching Bull.

Bull took a step towards him, and Dorian moved back have a pace. His posture tensed, and he faced Bull with an unhappy expression, his back to the corner. Bull stopped where he was. He wasn’t sure what caused the sudden shift, but he knew what it looked like when someone was gearing up for an unpleasant conversation.

“Bull,” Dorian bit his lip, then took a steadying breath. Bull watched him quietly, tried to keep his body language neutral. “Bull,” Dorian said again, more forcefully, “the other night, or last week, I suppose… when I spent the night on your couch…” he tilted his face to look Bull in the eye. “We talked about… things.”

Bull considered him, the way his jaw tightened anxiously, the nervous twitch of his fingers across his moustache. “We did talk about things.” He agreed. 

Dorian frowned. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Well, he would if he had any idea where it was going. “You’re talking about one of two things,” Bull said, because maybe he could try. “Tevinter being shit, or relationships.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed deeper. “Both bear more discussion.” He said in a quiet voice. He looked so uncertain. “Especially in light of,” he gestured abortively to the bed, and then between Bull and himself, “this.”

“You don’t have to talk about anything tonight.” Bull said. “Especially not Tevinter.”

“I probably should, really.” Dorian’s shoulders were tense. “But it’s not your responsibility to listen to me.”

“I sort of want it to be.” Bull meant it. Krem called him a mother hen, but he really couldn’t sit by while Dorian was so clearly hurting himself with all the bullshit he’d brought with him from Tevinter.

Dorian met his eye for a moment, and Bull saw the consideration flicker across his face before it was closed away. Not that conversation then, he thought, not the one where he told Dorian how important it had recently become that he was safe.

Dorian paced the width of his room, twisting his moustache. Bull sat on the bed. Maybe not the most politic move, but his leg was starting to ache. Dorian stopped in front of Bull on his third turn, jaw set like he was setting up to take a punch. Bull wanted to pull Dorian down to him. He wanted to hold him and keep the rest of the world away. Dorian stared resolutely at the window behind Bull, and didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s very noble of you to want to help me with all my problems,” Dorian told his music stand, a bitter twist to his words, “but that’s not what I meant.”

Dorian was always a little twitchy, but he was more anxious than Bull had seen him in a while. All the calm and easy smiles that had built up over the evening, the trust that had allowed him to fall asleep in Bull’s arms, had bled out right of him. Bull tried to think of what could have set this off. “What happened after the performance? Did that other ‘Vint say something to you?” What had her name been? “Mae?”

Dorian’s sighed and his shoulders slumped tiredly. “Can we leave it for now?” 

“Did something happen at home? With your parents?” Bull leaned forward, put a hand out carefully, not trying to alarm him.

Dorian smacked his hand away and turned to glare at him. “Vishante Kaffas, Iron Bull, can’t you take no for an answer?” He snarled. Bull froze. Dorian pinned him in place with an angry finger against his chest. “It’s not a complicated concept, you know. Just because I should talk about Tevinter and all the ways it’s fucked me up, doesn’t mean I have to talk to _you_ about it, and I definitely don’t have to do it on your schedule. I suppose you think you’re helping, but _it’s not your job_. I dealt with my issues just fine before I had you to hold my hand through the process, and I’ll continue to survive after you decide I’m not worth the effort.” His Tevene accent was strident, eyes narrow.

“I’m sorry,” Bull ventured, when the silence became unbearable and he still couldn’t put a finger on what had gotten tangled. Dorian sighed heavily. “I just wanted to help.”

Dorian huffed out a bitter laugh. “Kaffas, you’re worse than Cole.”

“How about you tell me what you want?” Maybe he’d misunderstood what Dorian was asking for. Maybe if he could figure it out he could fix it...

“What I _want_ is for you to stop thinking that you know what’s best for everyone else. And I don’t want to talk about Tevinter.”

“Like I said, we don’t have to.”

Dorian shot him an annoyed glance. “You did say that, didn’t you? And you kept pushing anyways.” Shame flooded through Bull. He had. No wonder Dorian was angry. Hell, Bull was angry at himself, for not respecting the limits he had set.

“Do you want me to leave?” Bull asked. He was sitting on Dorian’s bed like he expected something, like he had a right to expect anything. 

Dorian stared at him, his brow wrinkled in frustration. “I don’t, actually.”

Maybe Bull should have left anyways. But Dorian stood in front of him with his hands tense and his expression sliding slowly from angry to determined. “Do you want to--”

Dorian put a finger up. Bull waited. “What about you? Do you want to leave?” He asked. “I won’t be offended if you do.”

Leaving Dorian was the last thing he wanted to do. He shook his head slowly. “I’d like to stay.” Bull felt like he was walking through a minefield. Dorian sat down on the bed with an almost violent force, and Bull startled away from the movement on his blind side. He turned to face Dorian, who was frozen with one hand stretched towards Bull’s face.

He dropped it and didn’t meet Bull’s eye. The silence stretched from painful into awkward. “Dorian,” Bull reached out carefully and slid his hands around Dorian’s. They fit inside his, warm and unevenly calloused from years of violin practice. His fingers were long, his nails carefully manicured and clipped short. His dark skin was soft against Bull’s palms. “Dorian,” he said again, and Dorian finally looked at him. “You are worth the effort.”

Bull couldn’t name the emotions that colored Dorian’s face in the brief moment before he sighed, the tiniest of smiles drifting over his mouth. “Of course that’s the part that you focused on.”

“I heard the rest of it too, don’t worry.” Bell stroked his thumb over the back of Dorian’s hand. “I can’t promise that I won’t try to help again, but I can promise to listen to you.” Dorian’s expression was still guarded. “Because, the other thing you wanted to talk about...” He broke off, searching for the right words.

“Relationships,” Dorian prompted, and Bull felt like their positions were suddenly reversed. He wanted to rub at the back of his neck, or adjust his eye patch, nervous tics that would mean letting go of Dorian’s hands.

“Yeah, that. I, uh, don’t have a ton of experience, really. With things that last more than a couple dates, y’know?” Bull couldn’t meet Dorian’s eyes or some reason. He looked at Dorian’s mouth instead, which wasn’t really that much better.

“Well, neither do I. You know about restaurants and candles, at least.” Dorian’s smile was growing slowly.

“Yeah,” Bull smiled back, relieved. “We could figure it out together, if you want?”

“I’d like that.” Dorian kissed him. It was soft and almost gentle, just a press of lips and breath. Bull tightened his grip on Dorian’s hands so that he didn’t move them. He sat as still as he could and closed his eye, feeling the soft pressure of Dorian’s lips and focusing on only that.

He felt Dorian slip one hand away from his, and it reappeared on the side of his face, below his eyepatch. Dorian’s fingers curved along his jaw and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss with quiet insistence. A soft sound slipped out of Bull’s mouth, and he leaned forward until Dorian was on his back, Bull’s hands skimming up the soft lines of his arms to cup his face. He knelt over Dorian, and kissed him until they were both breathless.

Dorian sighed against him, something that might have been his name, and Bull opened his eye. In the partial darkness, Dorian’s eyes looked darker than usual, his lips softer. They watched each other for a long minute, and then Dorian yawned widely. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes flitting away from Bull’s in embarrassment.

Bull smiled and brushed the back of a finger against Dorian’s cheek. He sat up to pull his shirt off and then tugged the blankets out from under Dorian, who jerked upright in surprise. Bull lay down and covered them both with one of the quilts, leaving the other bunched somewhere near their feet. “I’m with you,” he said, settling himself on his back, “long day. I’m beat.”

Dorian stared at him, confused.

Bull grinned. “Wanna cuddle?”

Dorian shook his head with an exasperated chuckle, and slipped closer under the covers. It took a bit of maneuvering, but he wound up using Bull’s shoulder as a pillow, Bull pressing him to his side so that he wasn’t in danger of falling of the bed. He was solid and warm, one arm dropping across Bull’s chest with a comforting weight. Dorian’s hand traced idle patterns on the center of Bull’s chest, and tired as he was, Bull felt the heat from his fingertips down to his toes.

Dorian stretched up to kiss him. “Are you going to sleep with your eyepatch on?” He asked.

Bull tried to laugh off the shiver of tension that flashed through him. “I’m used to it,” he said, and he couldn’t tell if Dorian believed the lie. Bull lay quietly for a long time, trying to think of the best way to explain it.

By the time he’d strung together a reasonable excuse, Dorian was fast asleep.

 

Sunrise filtered weakly through the windows, the morning fog still heavy and gray. Dorian lay still for a long time after he first opened his eyes. Bull snored in his ear, heavy arms holding Dorian close, fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. Dorian stared at the light inching across the ceiling and wondered just what the fuck he thought he was doing.

He slipped out of bed, no small feat with Bull pressing him to his chest like an oversized teddy bear. As quietly as he could, he pulled on jeans, socks, a zip-up jacket, not bothering with non-essential items. He closed the bedroom door behind him, willing it not to squeak or slam.

Dagna was in the kitchen, and eyed skeptically him over her coffee. Dorian stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried not to look defensive. “I’m going for a walk,” he said quietly.

“And if Bull wakes up before you get back?”

“Tell him I went to get… eggs?”

“We have eggs in the fridge.” Dagna stirred her coffee. The spoon clinked judgmentally against the mug.

“Bagels, then. I know we don’t have those.” He scuffed his foot against the floor.

“He doesn’t have to stay for breakfast, you know. I can scare him off if you want.” Her tone was soft, like he was a skittish halla, and he mustered a smile to reassure her. She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“No, it’s fine, really. I just need some time to myself.” He went to pull his shoes on and Dagna followed him into the living room, sidestepping piles of books.

He could feel her watching him as he left the apartment, and he couldn’t really blame her for being skeptical. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, himself. It was hardly good form to slip out of your own apartment before your… whatever Bull was… was awake.

He trotted down the stairs, out the door, turned vaguely in the direction of the nearest cafe. They all deserved better than gas station bagels. In the light of morning, with doors and open air between them, a whole day to face, Dorian felt both optimistic and utterly terrified. Frankly, he had no idea how to be a boyfriend, but it seemed clear that that was what was expected of him now. Bull-- incongruously gentle, surprisingly sweet-- deserved that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How To Deal With Life, by Dorian Pavus- if one thing is stressful, avoid dealing with it until something else comes up that you have to avoid dealing with!
> 
> This chapter took _forever_! Mostly because it went through at least three very different drafts... this one actually advances the plot, though, so that's good.


	14. For The Longest Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long morning, a long night. Things get better, things get worse.

Bull didn’t wake up slowly. He was asleep and then he wasn’t. He was in an unfamiliar bed, smaller and softer than his own, and out of habit, he took stock of situation before moving or opening his eye. His head felt the worse for wear and his leg more than a little bit cramped. His eyepatch was still on, a little crooked, he had pants but no shirt-- and it was Dorian’s bed. Next to him, the sheets were empty and cold.

He sat up, blinking away the small amount of grogginess that remained. The room was as small and neat as he remembered it. Sunlight reached the foot of the bed, and he could see his shirt draped over the back of the chair by the desk, his duffle bag on the seat. The low murmur of conversation, muffled through the wall, told him that Dagna and Dorian were both in the apartment.

A small clock on the nightstand clicked from 7:28 to 7:29, and he slowly got out of bed, tugging the sheets into a decent approximation of tidiness. He pulled on his shirt, sorely tempted to poke through Dorian’s makeup or the music on the stand in the corner. Before he had a chance to do more than firmly decide _not_ to, the clock let out a terrifying screech.

Bull jumped about a foot in the air, and Dorian burst through the door to slam a button. Mercifully, the clock stopped making noise. “I’m sorry about that,” Dorian said, a little breathless. “I can be a heavy sleeper. I should have turned it off when I got up.”

Dorian looked genuinely upset about his alarm clock’s rudeness. “No harm done, I was already up.” He saw Dorian eye the small distance between Bull and his desk, and Bull stepped away from it, hoping he didn’t look too suspicious.

“Would you like breakfast?” Dorian asked, a little awkward. His hair was damp and he wasn’t wearing any makeup. “I think I’ve gotten the hang of scrambled eggs. There’s also bagels if you don’t trust my cooking. Dagna doesn’t.”

“Sure.” He followed Dorian out into the main room, where Dagna was sleepily tinkering with something on the counter. He went to pour himself some coffee, and spent five minutes curiously watching her fool around with a screwdriver inside Maleficent’s stomach.

“This might be even better than having a cat,” he told Dorian when Dagna set the little dragon on her feet, bending her neck this way and that, nodding to herself. “But don’t tell Ataashi I said that.”

Dorian laughed, and put two plates of scrambled eggs on the counter between Bull and Dagna, gently replacing the screwdriver in the dwarf’s hand with a fork. “I think I’ve succeeded, but feel free to tell me if it’s awful,” he said, leaning against the counter next to Bull. 

Dagna took a contemplative bite. “Could use a bit of salt, but much better than last time.” Dorian beamed like she’d awarded him some sort of medal. It was painfully sweet, and Bull shoveled eggs into his mouth to avoid saying something regrettable. They really weren’t half bad.

He saw Dorian watching him out of the corner of his eye, and gave him a thumbs up. Dorian’s smile grew that much wider, and Bull swallowed the eggs, then bent down to kiss him.

Dorian blinked at him, surprised but not unhappy, and kissed Bull back a little shyly. Dagna grinned into her robotic dragon. All things considered, it was a pretty great start to the day.

Dorian leaned over the counter and poked at something inside the dragon, and Dagna squawked and swatted at him. Dorian retreated, laughing, hands raised in defense or supplication. “No magic, see?” He spread his fingers, but a purple spark skipped off his knuckles, and Dagna, looking truly horrified, snatched her dragon off the counter and retreated to the couch in the other room, muttering about irresponsible use of energy. Dorian chuckled to himself and carried her coffee out to her, giving Maleficent plenty of space.

He asked a question Bull couldn’t hear, and Dagna answered in an equally low tone. Bull leaned on the counter and breathed in the steam from the coffee-- very good coffee, as if either Dagna or Dorian would drink anything else. He closed his eye and settled into the feeling of peace that had stolen over him. Or maybe he was still a little tired. It was a little ridiculous how much he wanted to stay, just for the morning. 

He’d never slept with someone without _sleeping with_ them, and now he and Dorian had just slept together twice. It felt almost backwards to him, to approach this sort of thing feelings first. 

But this could be good, for both of them.

\---

Bull laced up his boots, and Dorian tried not to hover behind him. He probably didn’t succeed. He held Bull’s bag in both his hands, just to have something to do with them. He was gripped with an irrational desire to ask Bull to stay.

Dagna brushed by them on her way to class, patting Bull on the shoulder and making a face at Dorian. The door closed behind her with a loud click, and they were alone in the apartment. Dorian felt like a nervous teenager.

Bull grinned at him from the floor, and Dorian smiled back, tamping down on the nervous butterflies in his gut. He had no reason to be anxious, not about Bull. Dorian hadn’t managed to scare him off yet.

Bull hauled himself to his feet and reached out for his bag. His wide fingers brushed over Dorian’s, sending a shiver up his spine. Bull paused and looked down at him, body warm and close against Dorian’s front. Dorian, still battling his sudden bout of shyness, felt his cheeks warming and didn’t meet Bull’s eyes.

He was eye-level with Bull’s chest, which wasn’t actually better than his face. “What a terrible flannel.” His voice caught in his throat. “What designer in their right mind would make purple and yellow plaid?” It was a ridiculous shirt, and filling up most of his vision. Easy to talk about.

Bull chuckled. His free hand wrapped around Dorian’s wrist, holding him still, though it wouldn’t have crossed Dorian’s mind to move away. “You trying to get me out of it?” He leaned closer to Dorian. “It might be working.”

Dorian glanced up at him. Bull’s smirk was wide enough to be more foolish than seductive, but affection bubbled up all the same, adding to the warmth that crept up the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and imagined that here was nothing else important beyond this moment. 

Bull’s fingers slipped from around Dorian’s wrist, and ghosted up his arm to the back of his head, settling in the short hair above his neck. Dorian lifted his face and forced his eyes open. Bull was still smiling at him, wide and soft. Neither of them moved.

Bull had to leave, Dorian knew. His harp was still at the theater, probably stored safely in a rehearsal room, but Dorian could never have been comfortable leaving his instrument unattended for so long. Of course, in Bull’s place, Dorian would have slipped away long ago, regardless.

“What time is it?” He asked softly, because he was selfish, and maybe Bull had different feelings about these things. 

“No clue,” Bull chuckled. “That clock of Dagna’s is about as useful as a knitted condom.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and smiled grudgingly. “I usually compare it to decaf coffee, but that is an evocative image.”

“Oh, really?” Bull’s eye slipped down to Dorian’s lips, and he dropped his bag and curled his second hand low against Dorian’s back. “I haven’t got any knitted ones, but I think there’s some in my bag--”

Dorian smacked his chest lightly. “I said evocative, not erotic, you brute!” Bull kissed him while he laughed. 

His hand was warm at the top of Dorian’s neck, holding him grounded while he leaned over him. Dorian gripped Bull’s biceps and pulled himself onto his toes, pressing against Bull’s chest for balance.

He looked up into Bull’s face, and found himself stroking his scarred cheek before he was aware of what he was doing. “I know you have places to be…” 

Bull smiled. “Nowhere important.” His hands were so warm.

Felix had called Dorian “obsessive” in his cheerful way, and Rilenius had called him “fastidious,” though that hadn’t always been a complement. Dorian himself preferred “precise,” or perhaps “systematic.” His note-taking habits had served him well in university, and most recently, he’d turned it to an attempt to catalog Bull’s kisses.

Bull liked to be close to him, to press together from knee to chest, to feel and hear Dorian breathe. He liked it when Dorian laughed, when Dorian put Bull’s hands where he wanted them, and when Dorian looked him in the eye.

Dorian, having decided to become indispensable to Bull, pressed against him with his full body, clinging to his shoulders while Bull held him steady. The first kiss was gentle, barely more than breathing. Dorian couldn’t suppress a sigh. There was something almost decadent about it, having the chance to just kiss without pressure, or fear. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of it.

It was wonderful to feel the way Bull moved against him, nearly overwhelming. He pulled Bull’s bottom lip between his teeth, just hard enough that he felt Bull shiver. He pulled away, teasing, and Bull followed.

He pressed Dorian against the wall, curling down over him. His kisses were deep and searching, and Dorian opened up to him easily, pushing up insistently. It wasn’t surrender, but it was something like it, and his hands were surprisingly steady on Bull’s face, despite his racing pulse. He could lose himself in this, he knew. Bull was grounding, solid, everything Dorian hadn’t even realized that he craved.

Bull deserved the best. Dorian knew that as surely as the fact that he would never be what Bull deserved. But with Bull’s mouth against him, his hands heavy and warm, Dorian desperately wanted to try. He’d try, and keep trying, for as long as this lasted. He knew that he’d do anything that Bull asked of him.

Bull’s hand squeezed suddenly on the back of his neck, and Dorian moaned, eyes snapping open. Bull stared down at him, eye slightly wide, throat working like he was trying to talk.

“You looked like--” he swallowed. “Thought your attention was slipping.” Dorian breathed through his nose, heart thudding against his ribs. Bull hadn’t moved his hand from where it covered his neck from shoulders to skull. With that grip, he could… well. He could wrap his thumb around Dorian’s throat, he could push Dorian roughly to his knees, he could do nearly anything, and Dorian would let him. Bull didn’t move. He barely breathed. His eye was dark and intense, but his face was tight with worry. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

That startled a little laugh out of Dorian, and he brushed his thumb across Bull’s cheek. “You didn’t.”

Bull’s fingers moved against his skin, almost stroking the back of his head, and Dorian smiled encouragingly. Bull’s expression stayed anxious. “I don’t want to.”

How excellently vague. Dorian forced his body to remain relaxed and kept his hands light. His mind jumped immediately to a thousand possible meanings, none of them good. “Don’t want to what?” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” How had Dorian found a qunari who embodied the opposite of everything he had grown up believing? He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, and Bull’s forehead furrowed in exasperation. “Dorian, seriously.”

Dorian took a deep breath and focused on Bull’s face. “I don’t think you will.” Bull stared at him. “I’m perfectly serious. I’m not fragile, and you’re hardly some vicious beast.”

“I’m not saying that.” Dorian waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

“I won’t deny I like it a little rough sometimes, but if you’re not comfortable with that…” He shrugged, and looked into Bull’s eye, trying to convey his surety. “Relationships are about compromise, I’ve been told.”

Bull cleared his throat with a forceful cough. “No, I’m fine with rough, more than fine. I just…”

“You don’t want to hurt me. That’s good. I don’t want to hurt you either.” Dorian kissed him lightly, and some of his tension faded. “So then for now, stop worrying about what _could_ happen and start thinking about what _should_ happen. For instance, I’m thinking we should go back to my room and you should fuck me into my mattress. After that, we should get coffee.”

“Like a date?” The smile was back, thank the Maker. “Yeah, sure, that sounds good.” He kissed Dorian again, slow and deep, until Dorian was breathless and clinging to his shoulder. Dorian let Bull support him, and breathed him, eyes closed. He couldn’t help the small noise he made when Bull pulled away. 

The hand at his waist was heavier now, and he lifted his chin and waited for what Bull would do next. He could feel Bull’s breath against the side of his face, Bull’s hands making tiny movements at his back. Surely they weren’t shaking? The moment stretched, and Dorian resisted the urge to open his eyes. Bull, he figured, should make the next move.

He waited.

He opened his eyes to scowl at Bull, who was grinning at him from an inch away. “Honestly, Bull--”

“Sorry, you just looked so cute.”

Dorian of House Pavus, a grown man and a professional, an adult with an apartment, a job, and, most recently, a boyfriend, did not blush.

He tightened his jaw and stared forcefully into Bull’s eye, ignoring how it crinkled tighter with amusement. “Does this mean you’d like to skip straight to the coffee? Because you can go and get it yourself. I don’t need to be there.”

“Cute and feisty, you’re like the main character of an inspirational high school movie! Don’t worry, the jock’s already noticed you, now you just need to wow everyone at your violin recital and get elected prom queen.”

“Forget the coffee, I’m about to set you on fire.”

Bull wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist. Dorian let Bull kiss him, gripping Bull’s horns hard to show that he wasn’t pleased.

He turned on his heel and led Bull back into the apartment. Bull kept a hand on the small of his back, and when Dorian slipped into his room, Bull pressed him up against the wall again, kissing him hard. Dorian clung to him.

He pulled away eventually, and sat heavily on the edge of Dorian’s bed to unlace his boots. Dorian pulled off his jacket, and, after a moment of deliberation, his necklace as well, and searched in his desk drawers for his condoms and lube. Bull glanced at him when he heard the box rip open, and he smiled at Dorian standing shirtless by his desk.

Dorian felt his cheeks heating and rolled his eyes. Ridiculous.

He climbed onto the bed and knelt behind Bull, pressing his chest against Bull’s back. He worked open the buttons he could reach, stretching his arms around Bull’s waist and over his shoulders. Bull chuckled and undid one or two himself, and let Dorian slide the shirt down his arms.

Dorian kissed Bull’s scarred shoulders as he uncovered them, and sucked a bruise at the base of Bull’s neck. Bull made a deep noise and gripped at Dorian’s hand where it rested heavily on his collarbone. He twisted around to kiss Dorian, mouth warm and soft.

Bull pushed him down onto the bed, one hand splayed in the middle of his chest. Dorian found himself looking up into Bull’s eye, Bull’s hands roaming over his skin, tracing the tattoos on his arm and shoulder. One hand slid lower over his stomach, and Dorian closed his eyes and arched up under Bull’s hand.

“Shit, Dorian,” Bull breathed, and Dorian could feel Bull’s eyes on him. “You’re beautiful.”

He raised his arms over his head and twisted his hips teasingly from side to side, showing himself to his best advantage. “Naturally.”

“I mean it.” Bull kissed him again, and as much as Dorian enjoyed being kissed, he was starting to feel impatient. He opened his eyes, and Bull was staring at him with an unreadable look on his face. “How’d I get this lucky?”

Dorian grumbled. “Right now, I’d like it if we could move a little bit faster towards the actual _getting_ lucky.”

Bull grinned. “You’re not smooth at all.”

“Please shut up,” Dorian kissed him again. “What are you waiting for anyway? Do you need a written invitation? Dorian Pavus requests the pleasure of the Iron Bull’s company at the occasion of his orgasm, will you be attending today? Répondez s'il vous plaît.”

“Orlesian, how _evocative_ ,” Bull smirked, but moved down Dorian’s body, sliding his pants down over his hips. He glanced up at Dorian’s face with that infuriating smirk. “No underwear?”

“I got dressed in a hurry, what of it?” Bull pressed a teasing kiss above his hipbone. “Kaffas, you brute, would you move this along?”

“Like this?” Bull took Dorian’s cock in one massive hand, not pressing, not moving, just _holding_ the base as he licked the head. Dorian moaned in frustration and fisted his hands in the sheets. “Or like this?” Bull’s tongue slipped down his length to tease at his balls. 

Dorian closed his eyes and breathed hard through his nose. What had he gotten himself into?

Bull’s breath was hot against his skin, and when he pressed his tongue firmly against the skin behind Dorian’s balls, Dorian shouted and grabbed at his horns. He pulled roughly until Bull looked up at him. Concern replaced his mischievous grin when he met Dorian’s eyes.

“Your eyepatch,” Dorian growled, “is made of metal, and it is fucking _freezing_.”

“Oh, I’ll, ah, take it off then, I guess.” He made no move to do so. They stared at each other for a moment.

Dorian sat up, and put his hands on Bull’s face. Bull sat up awkwardly, eye skittering away from Dorian’s. He kissed Bull’s lips softly, then his forehead. “You don’t have to. I was just startled.”

Bull looked at him for a long time, then pulled the eyepatch off with a quick, jerky motion. He dropped it on the bedside table and turned to face Dorian fully. His breath was sharp and loud.

Dorian pressed his lips to the scars underneath without hesitation. Bull’s good eye looked nervous, unusually bright and wide. Dorian smiled at him, and kissed him again. After a moment, he felt Bull’s eyelashes flutter against his skin, and the shaky exhale that moved his shoulders.

“Alright?” Dorian asked softly, and Bull nodded, pulling in another shaky breath. 

It felt natural to lean against Bull, to wrap his arms around his shoulders and kiss him. It felt natural to let Bull press him back into the mattress, settle him on his stomach, hands gentle but firm. He spread Dorian’s legs and moved back down his body, dropping kisses across his back as he went. Dorian was already moaning and clutching at the sheets when Bull’s tongue first pushed into him. 

His breath stuttered, and Dorian tensed for a second before he melted into it. Unexpected as it was, Dorian didn’t have the words to-- well, not tell him to stop, certainly. Tell him he didn’t have to? Dorian bit down on a knuckle as Bull licked and pressed at him, and once Dorian had gathered his thoughts, it would simply have been awkward to question it. Really, it was time to stop thinking altogether.

Bull’s mouth was hot and wet and delightfully filthy, and Dorian squirmed against him with undignified, happy noises. He managed to hand Bull the lube when he asked for it, and Bull worked him open so slowly. His tongue was joined by fingers one at a time, slicked generously, and only when Dorian gasped and begged him for more. Bull’s fingers stretched him deliciously, and he worked them in and out methodically. His free hand pressed on Dorian’s lower back, holding his hips still no matter how much he protested. By the time Bull finally leaned over him and bit softly at the side of his neck, there’d been a lot of whining. Some of it may even have been in Tevene.

Bull gently turned his head to kiss the side of his face, and Dorian sighed into the touch. Bull was stretched out over him, a slick finger still pressing inside him. He felt covered and safe in a way he hadn’t felt… ever, really. As impatient as he’d been before, Dorian was almost content to stay in this place forever, or at least as long as Bull would let him.

His eyes were closed and his breath came soft and easy, and he lay still under Bull as his hands traveled over Dorian’s body. Bull stroked and praised him, voice sweet and gentle, sounding like it came from far away. Dorian shivered when Bull slid his finger slowly out of him, the difference strange and almost cold.

Bull’s hand stayed on his hip, fingers brushing across his skin. “Can you turn over for me, gorgeous?”

Dorian moaned. He didn’t want to move.

Bull chuckled. “Need some help?” His strong hands rolled Dorian until he was on his back again, then stroked across his neck and shoulders. Dorian forced his eyes open.

Bull was looking down at him with a soft expression, a little smile turning the corners of his mouth. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this, Dorian?” He bent down and brushed his lips over Dorian’s cheek. Dorian managed an inquisitive noise. “Sure, I wanted you from the first moment I saw you, on the floor of the Herald, staring at me. I could feel you watching me the whole night. But I wanted _this_ ,” he sucked lightly on Dorian’s neck, “I wanted _you_ , from the first time I talked to you, that first rehearsal. You were so beautiful. I wanted to take you apart, figure out what makes you tick, find all your buttons, and give you everything you need.” one hand drifted down to Dorian’s cock, and Dorian couldn’t help the long, low moan that slipped out of his mouth. “I want to give you everything, Dorian.”

His hands finally followed his orders again, and he dragged Bull down against him, tongues and teeth sliding together as he panted into Bull’s mouth. He sucked at Bull’s lips, gripping his face with both hands. He gasped every time Bull’s hand moved on him, and he tilted his hips up, floating into the feeling of Bull everywhere over him and around him.

Bull stopped, and Dorian’s words returned. At any other time he would have been proud of the number of languages he was cursing in, but he just wanted Bull’s hands back on him.

“I’m not going anywhere, gorgeous,” a hand settled over one of Dorian’s, fingers twisting together. Dorian lay back and listened to him move, the slide of fabric as he shuffled out of his pants, the tear of the condom wrapper, the click of the bottle cap on the lube.

He felt Bull settle between his thighs and press a finger back into him, gentle, easy. He reached up and Bull took his hand again, kissing his fingers and palm, the inside of his wrist. “Do you want to be on your stomach?”

Dorian shook his head.

He felt Bull smile against his hand, then his arm was guided up above his head. He pulled the other up as well, and gripped Bull’s hand with both of his. Bull leaned down and kissed him again, his other hand sliding under Dorian’s ass. He tilted his hips, brought his knees up, and almost tried to ask what else he should do when Bull slowly slid into him.

He was wide, achingly so, and Dorian groaned against Bull’s mouth as he pressed forward. He held onto Bull’s hand tightly, working to relax the rest of his body. Pinned under Bull’s steady weight, Dorian surrendered himself to the pace Bull set, slow as it was. They moved together almost gently, Bull’s hips rocking against his, his hand firm on Dorian’s, his mouth consuming and warm.

Dorian lost himself in the slowly building heat, the feel and smell and weight of Bull. He wrapped his legs around Bull’s waist, as much as he could, and pressed himself up against him. Bull took his mouth from Dorian’s after an eternity, and moved his lips to Dorian’s neck and ear, whispering in Common and Qunlat, words that Dorian could barely hear or understand. The tone was all that mattered to him, as warm as Bull’s body over him, soft and colored with a smile. Bull’s hand moved up his side and then down again to palm Dorian’s cock, as careful and soft as everything else.

The touch made Dorian whine and press his head back against the mattress, and suddenly, as _much_ as everything had been, it wasn’t enough. Bull’s lips were against his throat when he wanted teeth, his movements slow and gentle when Dorian needed hard and fast.

He opened his eyes and licked his lips, trying to think. Bull lifted his head to look at him, and Dorian was startled by the intensity of his gaze. He stared up at Bull wordlessly as he kissed him again, just a brush of their mouths. “Bull,” he said. His voice was rough, and Bull’s grip tightened momentarily on his cock, pulling a desperate gasp out of him. “Bull,” he insisted.

Bull’s throat worked. He didn’t say anything. Dorian twisted his hands and grabbed hard at Bull’s fingers. Bull’s eye flickered up to their hands and then back to Dorian’s face.

“Bull, I want you to fuck me.” Bull groaned, a low, guttural noise that pulled at something deep in Dorian. “Please. I don’t want gentle. Take me apart. Fuck me, mark me. I want you.” He stared up at Bull, tugging at his hand, rolling his hips enticingly. He tried for imperious, and probably wound up somewhere closer to desperate. He wanted to feel it for the rest of the day, and longer. 

“Fuck, Dorian.” Bull’s voice was soft, low and rough. He looked at Dorian like he was something precious, and that was all well and good, but “precious” didn’t leave the right sort of bruises. “Vashedan,” Bull growled, “you’re going to kill me.”

He leaned down and bit the muscle of Dorian’s neck, right at the place he put his violin. Dorian moaned and arched up against him, shuddering at the sting. Bull sucked at the spot and his hand worked harder on Dorian’s cock, twisting and sliding. The pressure that had been building hit Dorian again with a jolt, and he pressed his head back, gasping for breath.

Bull’s hips moved faster, harder, pressing him down into Dorian with all his weight. He panted against Dorian’s neck, breath hot and loud, hands wonderfully hard. Dorian’s voice was back, but out of his control, he growled half-finished sentences somewhere between encouragements and threats, and dug his heels into the muscle of Bull’s back. 

Bull’s hand lifted off of his and wrapped hard around his chest, the other gripping his hip enough to bruise. Dorian rolled his hips against Bull as much as he could, and grabbed hard at Bull’s shoulders. He raked his nails over Bull’s back, wanting to leave his own mark, to lay some sort of claim to Bull.

He tried to thrust back against Bull; he wanted more, deeper, harder. Bull’s teeth were sharp on his side of his neck, Bull’s breath loud in his ear. The sounds he made… not quite words, but deep, rich noises that shuddered through Dorian like lightning. If he could stay in one place, this would be it, he realized. 

Dorian came hard, spilling over Bull’s hand and onto his stomach, gasping Bull’s name again and again, reveling in the feeling of him, of being full and wanted and needed. His mouth found Dorian’s again, and he groaned against Dorian’s lips as he thrust hard through his own orgasm.

Dorian kept his eyes closed until his heart rate settled, but his hands found their way to Bull’s face, his shoulders, any part of him that he could touch. He could feel the smile drifting onto his face.

Bull kissed the spot on Dorian’s shoulder that was likely already bruising, then he gathered Dorian in his arms and rolled over onto his back. Dorian lay on top of him, naked and sweaty, until his skin dried and he started to shiver. He needed to clean up, but he had no desire to move ever again. He pulled his hopelessly rumpled blankets over them.

“Coffee?” Bull said, sometime later. “Maybe pancakes? I don’t know about you but I could eat a druffalo.”

Dorian kissed him. “Can we just stay here for a while?”

Bull’s hand cupped his cheek and he smiled softly. “Alright.”

\---

“Hey, fancy britches,” Dorian didn’t know _why_ Sera was constantly inviting herself along when he went grocery shopping, but he suspected it was mostly for the fun of insulting his choices in alcohol. He ignored her. “Hey, hey. Dorian.” 

“ _What_ , Sera?”

“What’s this?” She held up a copy of _Celene! _, and flapped it around in front of his face.__

__“Well, it appears to be a trashy gossip rag. I thought you’d be able to read words, considering that you can read music.” He turned back to the pomegranates, considering if he missed them enough to pay four whole sovereigns for one. Maker._ _

__“I can read just fine, you arse. Here, watch: ‘Halward Pavus, noted composer and patron of the Magisterium Orchestral Society, is being brought up on charges of assault, extortion, and conspiracy to commit illegal magical acts,’ they’ve got a helpful little note here says “blood magic,” ‘Tevene police arrested him in his home… blah blah blah… police are still looking for Pavus’s son, Dorian, the alleged victim of Pavus’s crimes.’ And they’ve got a shot of you looking right posh.” She handed him the magazine. “So. What’s this?”_ _

__He took it with shaking hands. “It’s my past, apparently, still following me no matter how hard I try to leave it behind.” At least it was a good picture of him._ _

__“Hmm.” Sera tapped one foot against the floor. “This is more’n a fight with your dad like you said it was.”_ _

__“Indeed.” He didn’t want pomegranates at all, he decided. “I think I may have told you once or twice that our views often didn’t align.”_ _

__“Y’gonna go back?”_ _

__“Not likely.” It came out a touch more aggressive than he’d meant it to. “Do you know, this whole mess started because he wanted to _avoid_ public embarrassment.”_ _

__“Shit on what he wants.” She opened a pack of gum and popped two into her mouth, tossing the rest into Dorian’s basket. “But you’re staying here? Even though the ‘Vint police are looking for you?”_ _

__“I suppose I’ll deal with that if they find me.”_ _

__“I’ve got friends, y’know, can give you a place to lie low if you need it. Not the first time I’ve had to help someone avoid the cops.”_ _

__“That’s very sweet, Sera.” He leafed through the rest of the magazine. “If I need help avoiding the police, you’ll be the first person I call.” She probably would be, actually._ _

__“Not your boyfriend?” This was subtle teasing, coming from her. She barely even cackled._ _

__“No, of course not. I wouldn’t want to endanger him, you see. If someone sent an assassin, I wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty about using you as a meat shield.” He also, possibly, had yet to tell Bull about the rapidly-expanding debacle. It seemed a daunting task._ _

__He scowled at the magazine for a minute longer. “‘A source close the household--’ that could mean anyone, really-- ‘hinted that Pavus might have been provoked by his son’s ‘alternative lifestyle--’ oh, that is really too much.”_ _

__“Shit, really?” Sera looked… well, “pissed” was probably a good way to describe it. Along with “horrified” and “pitying” and all those lovely things Dorian despised._ _

__“Unfortunately, yes.”_ _

__She bit her lip. “Doesn’t Tevinter have movie stars or some shit? Who cares about you anyway, you just fiddle.”_ _

__“I don’t _fiddle_ Sera, please. That’s entirely different.” He moved on to lettuce and other more affordable produce. “People watch Magisters’ families like hawks. Money, political power, generations of concerted attempts to produce the best and most beautiful children… watching spoiled rich kids implode is a national pastime. Everyone loves a good scandal. High and mighty getting knocked on their asses and all that.”_ _

__“Obviously.” She picked up an apple and put it down again. “Can’t you sue them? Keep your face out of it. Libel and slander or something.”_ _

__“It’s not libel if it’s true. And that would probably just get more attention. I’d rather not be salon-chair gossip for all the housewives of Thedas for longer than I need to be.” He left the magazine by the onions and went to peruse the store’s selection of chocolates._ _

__Sera was mercifully quiet, but she stuck close the rest of the time they were in the store. It almost seemed like she might follow him home. At the bus stop, she turned to him, brows furrowed. “I can fuck off, yeah? If you want space or some shit.”_ _

__Dorian shook his head. “I’d actually like to get monstrously drunk tonight. Care to join?”_ _

__She grinned, and pulled out her beat-up phone. “You know what’s better than drinks with one person? Drinks with everybody.”_ _

__\---_ _

__Bull met Dorian and Dagna at the Herald after Charger’s rehearsal. Sera’s massive group text had been short on the details, but Bull was sure that something was going on. Dagna was distracted and almost snippy, Sera barely sat still, and Dorian was quiet and withdrawn from the moment Bull sat down._ _

__He leaned into Bull’s space and his hand kept straying to Bull’s wrist where he’d draped it on the back of Dorian’s chair. Bull worked hard not to just pull Dorian into his lap and not let him go. It wouldn’t have gone over well at all, but the instinct was there. He barely listened to the conversation, keeping his eyes on Dorian instead._ _

__“It’s always a battle to get Solas to Halamshiral, I think Josie’s threatening him with a Gershwin medley if he doesn’t behave.” Varric shrugged. Daga tucked her feet up onto her chair and tried to look interested. “Last year she tried to compromise. I think this time she’s using a smaller carrot and a bigger stick.”_ _

__“I don’t want nothin’ to do with your carrots, or your sticks.” Maryden arrived, slipping into the seat next to Sera, and Bull noticed the slump in Dagna’s shoulders. He tried to raise his eyebrow at Dorian, but the ‘Vint was staring into his beer. “Who wants sticks?”_ _

__“What’s the stick in this case, anyways?” Bull leaned over Dorian to snag one of the bottles Maryden had brought. He set his other hand on Dorian’s thigh under the table, but even that didn’t get a response. “Josephine’s already making us play that Liszt piece, how can it get worse?”_ _

__“Pachelbel.” Sera growled with feeling._ _

__Dorian looked up from his drink, finally, to frown at Varric. “You’re using that idiom wrong, you know. It’s not about reward and punishment, it’s about how you’d tie a carrot to a stick and hold it in front of your mule or what have you to make it go faster. A smaller carrot at the end of a longer stick wouldn’t be a smaller reward and greater punishment, it’s just a relatively smaller incentive.”_ _

__He kept talking, veering into the type of logic that might have made sense if Bull had been drunk enough to ignore the actual words. Instead, Bull was just drunk enough to listen to his voice, which was pretty, and watch his body language, which was tense._ _

__Dorian trailed off again after a while, but leaned toward Bull the whole time. He drank quietly while everyone chatted around them, and Bull worried. He looked almost ready to doze off against Bull’s side when his phone rang, startling both of them._ _

__Dorian pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment, like he was having trouble reading the words on the screen. “Sorry, everyone, I really should get this,” he said, and slipped away down the stairs. Bull started to follow him, partway out of his seat before he realized what he was doing._ _

__Varric shook his head at Bull from across the table. “Family stuff,” he mouthed. Bull didn’t know how he knew that._ _

__\---_ _

__Sunset had leeched all of the early spring warmth out of the air, and Dorian could see his breath as he slipped out the door of the Herald. He didn’t go far, just around the corner, into what could charitably be called an alley._ _

__She picked up on the first ring. “You called back. I thought you might not.” She sounded tired._ _

__“I was with friends.”_ _

__“Of course.” The silence stretched between them. “I thought you might have changed your number.”_ _

__“Is that why you never called?” Dorian didn’t bother keeping the accusation out his voice._ _

__“Your father said you needed… space. After Felix.” He hadn’t called her, either._ _

__“How considerate of him.”_ _

__Dorian leaned against the wall of the Herald, knocking his foot against the bricks. A cop car wailed by, sirens flashing._ _

__“Would you believe me if I said I had no idea?”_ _

__“Would you have stopped him if you had?”_ _

__Without being able to see her face, Dorian didn’t know if her small intake of breath was pain or anger. Maybe it didn’t matter._ _

__“The police came to my office, Dorian. They asked me in front of my staff and a very prominent Deshyr if I had any knowledge of my husband’s criminal acts!” Anger it was, then. “If I knew where my own son was!” Her voice shook. She’d always tended toward tears when truly angry. It was an abominable habit that Dorian had inherited from her._ _

__“That must have been very hard for you, Mother.”_ _

__“How did this happen, Dorian? How did I miss what was happening in my own home?” And there, that delightful mix of self blame and self pity they shared as well. Perhaps that one was a learned skill. “How could he do this?”_ _

__“I imagine he thought he was doing the right thing.”_ _

__“Oh no, you don’t get to blame yourself for this one, my dear. The fault is entirely his. His and mine, for not stopping him.”_ _

__“Rather early in the evening for this level of introspection, don’t you think?”_ _

__He’d really missed her particular brand of exasperated sigh. “Are you coming back?”_ _

__“Are you trying to tell me that you miss me, Mother?”_ _

__“Bizarre as it sounds, I do love my son, yes.”_ _

__“I wouldn’t stay long if I did.” He warned._ _

__“You’re happy then?” The quaver in her voice was back. “You have friends?”_ _

__“I do. I actually met a relative of Mae’s, or her husband’s, rather. He plays in the SSO with me.”_ _

__“I heard. Do you--” She cleared her throat delicately. “Are you seeing anyone? That’s a thing people ask, right?”_ _

__“It is. I am.”_ _

__“That’s, that’s good!” She did try. “Would I like him?” She barely tripped over the pronoun at all._ _

__“I think you would.” He honestly did. “If you manage to get past the horns. They’re quite noticeable.”_ _

__“He’s qunari?” Again, Dorian wasn’t sure exactly what she was thinking with only her voice to judge. Possibly, it was just surprise._ _

__He felt almost smug. “Extremely.”_ _

__“Well, if he makes you happy.” That was definitely doubt, but she was continents away. What did she matter?_ _

__“He rather does, I find.” Around the corner, people moved in and out of the Herald. He could hear the music through the wall, slightly louder when the door opened._ _

__A long sigh. “I’m glad, my dear, I truly am.” Another long silence. It didn’t hurt less than the first. “Do you… need anything? Money? Or… something?”_ _

__“No, Mother. I’m fine.”_ _

__“If you do, you will call me, won’t you? Or even, if you don’t?”_ _

__It occurred to him, suddenly, that she might feel very alone in this moment as well. “I will. Goodnight, Mother. Be well.”_ _

__“You too, darling.” He hung up._ _

__Dorian closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall with a sigh, resisting the urge to slide down it and sit on the ground. The ground was wet with the melting slush that plagued Ferelden in the spring, and dirty besides. He focused on breathing the cold air, on slowing his racing heart, on not setting fire to the dumpster further down the alley._ _

__“You alright?” Bull was standing on the sidewalk, like he was trying not to intrude on Dorian’s space._ _

__“Did Dagna send you to check on me?” Dorian stuck his phone in his pocket. He was specifically aware of the action, the movement of his arm taking all his concentration._ _

__“No, I… I was worried.” He scratched at the skin under his eyepatch. “I’m allowed to say that, yeah?”_ _

__Dorian didn’t know what he meant by that, so he nodded. “How long have you been standing there?”_ _

__Bull smiled sheepishly. “I mean, I overheard a bit, but I didn’t understand most of it. Tevene and all.”_ _

__That made sense. Dorian’s thoughts felt slow and spongy. “That was my mother. I haven’t spoken with her since I left Tevinter.” Bull looked stricken. He took a hesitant step towards Dorian._ _

__Dorian didn’t know how Bull always managed to feel so strongly about other people. It was admirable, he thought. It was sometimes quite a lot of work to have feelings about oneself._ _

__“You’ve got a pretty impressive poker face, you know that?” Bull was closer now, his body language studiously unconfrontational._ _

__“Naturally.” That got Dorian a frown, though he thought he’d sounded decently casual._ _

__“Can I touch you?” Bull asked, like he thought Dorian was about to bolt._ _

__“I should think you don’t need to ask that anymore. We’ve touched each other quite thoroughly already.” Really, where did Bull come up with these ideas of his?_ _

__Bull frowned more intensely. “Just because we’ve-- once doesn’t always mean--” he pinched the bridge of his nose like Dorian was the one giving him a headache. “You know what, we can talk about that later.”_ _

__“Are we talking about something now?” His voice sounded strange and far away._ _

__“Your mother?”_ _

__“That’s right. She feels guilty and offered to send me money. I also informed her of our involvement.” He moved his hand between their bodies. His fingers were cold._ _

__“Oh. You didn’t need to do that.” Dorian watched Bull’s mouth move, the way his shoulders shifted as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t imagine she was thrilled.”_ _

__Dorian examined his face; surprise, followed by softness. A vulnerable expression. He put his hand gently against Bull’s cheek. “Do you think I’m ashamed of you? Please don’t think that.” Bull stared at him. Dorian pulled together some sort of smile, probably. “Really, there was very little tearing of hair or rending of clothes. She wanted me to visit--”_ _

__It all came flooding back in that moment, and between one heartbeat and the next, Dorian was gasping like he’d been punched in the stomach. This was always the worst part. He’d leave his feelings hanging somewhere in the ether for a while, and then they’d return with a vengeance._ _

__He was vaguely aware of Bull’s arms wrapping around him, and he turned his face into Bull’s chest, grabbing fistfulls of his shirt. He didn’t cry, not really. A few tears may have slipped out, but they stayed trapped in his eyelashes. His shoulders shook, but he was quiet, and let Bull hold him steady._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me, y'all! As a present, have THE LONGEST CHAPTER YET.


	15. Only So Many Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, dates, cheese, no candles, more feelings... Dorian just can't catch a break.

Bull had dropped him and Dagna off outside their apartment an hour ago, and he’d been sitting in the same position since they’d come inside: cross-legged on his bed, laptop open in front of him. The cursor blinked judgmentally on his screen. What would this even accomplish? 

He hadn’t googled his own name in years.

The last time he’d searched for himself on the internet had been… right after his first performance with Alexius. A student quartet, Gereon’s most promising tutees, and a solo performance of his own. He and Felix had stayed up the whole night reading the stories. They’d finished two bottles of Sun Blonde and laughed at the overblown praise every reporter had been desperate to heap on him. The son of a magister, working under the personal tutelage one of the greatest conductors the Imperium had seen in decades.

“The music is beyond magical,” he remembered one had said. “It transports you almost outside of time itself.”

Felix had gone on a new round of medication shortly after that, which reacted poorly with alcohol, so the night had never been reprised. 

Dorian wasn’t looking forward to it now, but he had to know.

“The Magister’s Missing Son!” Was the top result. Dorian didn’t click on it. He scrolled through three pages of search results. His first interview with _Fama_ about his plans to focus on music instead of politics (three years ago now!) still ranked the first page, but most of the stories were about the blood magic, his disappearance, his father’s arrest.

Though the publications ranged from gossip rags to a couple of genuine political observer types, most were Tevene, and none were more than three days old. The earliest article he could find was from, perhaps predictably, a moderately-respectable tabloid owned by one of his mother's political rivals. The focus of that first article was on the hypocrisy Halward showed in decrying blood magic but also using it; it questioned Aquenia's suitability for political office, considering the corruption within her own home; it wasn’t even particularly sensational, but it was clearly the source of the story. Many of the other articles quoted it directly.

But the articles that picked up the story all went for the family angle, rather than the political one. “Missing!” shouted one, “Dead!” another. “Escaped to Orzammar with his dwarven lover and their twin mage-dwarf babies!” proclaimed a third.

None of them had thought to send reporters to Ferelden yet, though that was only a matter of time. He had a work visa, he wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile with the SSO. They’d show up sooner or later, accosting him in coffee shops and on his way to rehearsal, just like they had in Tevinter. 

He should probably tell Dagna. And Josephine. And… and Bull.

He knew what the rest of the night would be like as soon as the thought entered his mind. He felt the panic coming on in the way his breath shortened, how his heart had already been racing, the painful tension in his shoulders and chest. 

He closed the laptop and curled around his pillow, gripping his necklace hard enough that the wires dug into his palm. His body shook like he’d been hit with a lightning spell, and he spent the night curled on his side, thoughts racing. He passed out at some point after midnight.

He got up in the morning when he heard Dagna in the shower, not rested in the least. He did his makeup carefully and made coffee carefully, and sat down across the counter from her, determined and ready for the worst. His eyeliner was smudged in minutes (hers too, Dagna was a sympathetic crier) and he never touched his coffee, but by the time they both had to leave, Dorian might have actually begun to feel a little better. Dagna was as good at listening as she was at talking.

On his way out the door, his phone pinged with an email from his mother.

_I took the liberty of contacting a lawyer in Ferelden who you may want to speak with. She’s not associated with the Pavus estate, so she’d be representing only your interests should you seek her advice._

What she meant was “please let this woman coach you on how to answer questions, even if you don’t come back to Tevinter to take the stand.” She was expecting media attention too. She was probably already dealing with it.

\---

Dorian _liked_ Rostropovich, he really did. And Sera was a very talented cellist; he was sure that her solo would sound very good, eventually. Hopefully before they had to perform it. 

Honestly, though, he couldn’t say that the fault lay entirely, or even mostly, in her playing. A soloist was only as good as their accompaniment and most of the string section (those of them who’d actually shown up) wasn’t being very helpful. Sera was easily distracted, and Cassandra’s glowering didn’t help. Nor did Vivienne’s irritated sniffing whenever anyone made a mistake. It was a petty sort of relief that he wasn’t the only one having a terrible time of it.

Dorian had recently begun to consider the SSO to be a sort of family. Today, everyone seemed to be someone else’s obnoxious younger sibling.

They struggled through the piece three more times, but it still failed to click. Josephine admitted defeat five minutes before rehearsal was officially over, which was ten minutes before they usually wrapped up, and Dorian wasn’t the only one who looked exhausted.

He watched Sera throw her music in her bag and race out the door, and wondered if he should go after her. He didn’t know what he would say-- if she’d even appreciate his company. In his moment of indecision, he lost the chance to follow her. Sera moved very fast when she wanted to.

“Hey, Dorian,” Bull said from behind him, voice almost muffled by the clatter of everyone packing their sheet music and putting instruments away. “What’re you doing after this?”

Dorian slipped his bow into the top of his case and closed the lid carefully, snapping the buckles into place. He turned to Bull, his smile coming easily. “Nothing particular. There’s a couple books Dagna’s been telling me to read, but I might put them off a bit longer just to annoy her. Why?” Bull’s eye was fond, and Dorian picked his music up off the stand to stop himself from fixing his mustache, or running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I was thinking we could finally go on that date?” It was such a simple question, needed only a simple answer, but Dorian felt his cheeks heating regardless. He shuffled his loose sheet music into the folder, opposite the slim book with the odious Liszt march. Even Varric’s orchestral setting couldn’t save it, in his opinion.

“I’ll need to take my violin home.” He was hardly about to leave it in Bull’s minivan, or Maker forbid, bring it into a bar. It was easily the most valuable thing he owned.

“You could stash it at my place.” Bull rolled his harp towards the storage closet in the back of the room, and Dorian picked up his violin and music, following him. “There’s a new pub we can walk to, you can pick it when I take you home. Or, you could stay the night.” 

He zipped his case over his harp with an offhand shrug, like he thought there was a chance Dorian would say no.

Dorian leaned on the door jam of the storage closet behind Bull as he wheeled the harp further in. “That sounds lovely.” 

Bull smiled at him, and Dorian felt it all the way to his fingertips.

“So,” Dorian said as he followed Bull down the stairs and out of the building. “A pub? How positively Ferelden.” 

Bull grinned sidelong at him. “When in Skyhold.”

Dorian smiled back, and dared to slide his hand into Bull’s. “Do you recall promising me candles?”

“The candles are for after.” Bull’s hand encompassed Dorian’s. The air was cold, but Dorian ignored it. Impulsively, he tugged on Bull’s arm and led him towards the garden he’d found tucked away in the back of the castle weeks ago. 

“Look at this,” he said, pulling Bull up the stairs into the space, out of the wind. Some of the plants were beginning to bloom.

“The garden?” Bull asked. He didn’t seem to be as impacted by it as Dorian had been. He looked around at the benches, the gazebo at the far end, and shrugged. “It’s cute.”

Dorian opened his mouth to object, but then remembered-- Bull couldn’t feel the webs of magic that covered every inch of the castle. He couldn’t hear the whisper of the Fade. Really, he probably wouldn’t want to. “I think it’s beautiful.” Dorian said, and took a few steps down the main path. 

Bull followed close behind him.

“There’s nothing like this in Tevinter.” Dorian told him, and maybe he felt a little silly by how underwhelmed Bull was. “The magic is so different here.”

Bull glanced around. “It’s a magic garden?” He eyed a rosebush suspiciously.

“Only by virtue of being the home of so many mages in the past.” Dorian sat on the worn stone bench in the back of the gazebo.

Bull sat next to him. “So not like, demons magic.”

Dorian glanced at him sidelong. “I’d be _very_ surprised to encounter any demons here.” Didn’t Bull have any formal schooling in magical theory? No, most likely not, Dorian remembered. “It’s all small magic. For things like plants and shoring up the walls. No demons necessary.”

Bull grunted a little skeptically.

“There’s so many… personal notes that people have added. It’s sort of like being in a library, or reading a guest book at a party?” Dorian suddenly wanted very badly to explain the way the garden felt to him. It mattered, for some reason, that Bull understand this. “Like there are people around but not. Ghosts, almost.”

“That’s a good thing?” Bull asked. “Oh, right. You have a zombie magic tattoo. Of course ghosts are good.”

Dorian turned to argue with him, but Bull’s expression was soft. Indulgent, Dorian would call it if directed toward anyone else. He scowled. “You needn’t be so sarcastic.”

Bull smiled at him. “Sorry, you’re trying to show me something cool. I get it.” His hand curled around Dorian’s fingers. “Well, mostly. I can’t actually see the magic you’re talking about.”

“It’s not _seeing_ , exactly… I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s more like a change in temperature?”

Bull shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it.” He tugged lightly at Dorian’s hand. “Hey, Dorian. I know we’re kinda in a public place, but, can I kiss you?”

Dorian laughed. “I don’t know, can you?”

Bull leaned closer to him, and Dorian turned to face him, feeling Bull’s thumb brush across his palm, the only point of contact. “Only if you want me to.” His voice dropped lower, and Dorian couldn’t suppress a little shiver. He’d only had a whim to show Bull the garden, but they _were_ alone… 

“I think I’d manage to survive the experience.” 

“Good.” Bull smiled at him, bright and happy, and Dorian’s heart ached a little. 

“Bull, I should mention that--” Bull kissed him, and Dorian melted against him appallingly quickly. Bull’s hand rested on the back of his neck, gentle and grounding.

Bull pulled away after a moment and brushed his hand over Dorian’s cheek. “Sorry, I interrupted you.”

Maybe, everything else could wait. Maybe, this could be simple. “It’s not that important,” he said, and leaned in to kiss Bull again. 

\---

Al’s Pub was really more of a tavern, Dorian thought. 

“It doesn’t look particularly new.” The walls were paneled with warm, rich wood, and the solid-looking booths were built right into them. The table Bull lead them to could have fit three more people, since the soft, slightly-worn fabric on the bench curled three-quarters of the way around. There were only a few other people there, though, so Dorian tried not to feel guilty about taking up more space than they needed.

“New owner, old space.” Bull draped their jackets on the seat next to him, sliding around the curve of the bench to sit next to Dorian. “There was some sort of legal issue when one of the co-owners died and his son got his stocks. Wanted to change things up, the other owner didn’t. Big issue in the neighborhood. People were all up in arms.”

Dorian glanced around at the mostly-empty room. Two thirds of the other patrons were at the bar. “The community doesn’t seem to be deeply attached at the moment.” It wasn’t _too_ early for dinner. Though it was a Tuesday.

“Well, they eventually decided to sell it and split the cash. The new owner’s doing pretty good, but the oldtimers are still suspicious.”

Dorian picked up the menu, a single laminated page. “Ah yes, the constant and menacing specter of change.” The offerings seemed to be primarily burgers, and the beer list was considerably more extensive. He was neither surprised or particularly disappointed. There was something to be said for the heavy-handed warmth of Fereldan food.

Bull dropped an arm around Dorian’s shoulders. “This one’s good.” He pointed to something on the menu, his big fingers obscuring it until Dorian had to move them out of the way himself. Raspberry beer? Who’d ever heard of such a thing?

He ordered it anyways, when a cheerful waitress slipped over to the table. “I’m Norah,” she told them, and Dorian firmly refused the instinct to wriggle out from under Bull’s arm. She launched into a detailed description of the specials and half the menu. Despite his best efforts, Dorian found it hard to focus on what she was saying.

Bull’s presence beside him was grounding, and Dorian leaned against him, feeling rather content about it. He was becoming a terrible sap.

“If this beer is awful, I’m holding you personally accountable,” he told the side of Bull’s jaw, which was all he could see of his face. Tucked under Bull’s left arm, he felt safe and also trusted (a novelty) but it did stymie conversation just a touch.

Bull laughed, pulled him closer. “I promise it’s not. But if you really hate it, I’ll make it to you somehow.” Dorian laughed too, at the way Bull turned towards him, the way his voice lowered, at the brush of fingers at his waist.

He looked at the menu for a moment longer and then sighed. “Why not make this an all or nothing game, then?” He flapped the laminated paper at Bull. “Choose one of these burgers for me. They all sound the same.”

Bull chuckled again. “Don’t let Norah hear you say that.”

Dorian pretended to look thoughtful. “Would they kick me out, or do you think I could play the ignorant ‘Vint and get their three best burgers so that I can finally learn what all the fuss is about?”

This was so easy, making Bull laugh, pretending that nothing was wrong, hitting his marks and letting the conversation flow where it would. 

His phone burned a hole in his pocket, the email from his mother unanswered all day. 

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Dorian glanced up at Bull, tension jumping from a low hum to a quiet shrieking. “What do you mean?”

Bull’s tone was light, but he must have been able to feel Dorian’s shoulders rolling forward. “When we were in the garden at the castle, you said there was something should mention?”

“I also said it wasn’t important.” He sounded petulant to his own ears. Bull didn’t say anything, and Dorian sighed. “I’d rather discuss it in private.”

“No problem.” Without seeing his face, Dorian couldn’t be certain whether Bull was upset, but he surely couldn’t be happy.

“I just… I’m having a nice time.” His fingers had wrapped themselves around Bull’s wrist, in case Bull tried to move his arm away. “I don’t want to ruin it.” Not yet, at least.

“Hey, really, no problem.” Bull’s hand stroked his side, unreasonably soothing. “We should get their cheese fries, they’re really good.”

Defused, just like that. It would have made Dorian feel like he was overreacting, if he hadn’t been so focused on keeping his reactions very, very small. “ _Very_ Fereldan,” he told Bull. “Cheeseburgers, grilled cheese, cheese fries? What if I don’t want cheese? Is there no alternative?”

“Now you’re just being difficult.” Bull chuckled, and Dorian shut everything else away.

\---

They got their burgers, and Bull was happy. Dorian relaxed bit by bit, leaning into Bull and stealing chips off his plate. He didn’t mind, because Dorian didn’t wind up liking the cheese fries, and left those to him. Dorian did give them a genuine try with remarkably little prompting, so Bull considered it a victory.

They ate slowly, chatting about work and the new series of books Dorian’s elf friend had hooked him on. Dorian grudgingly accepted that Fereldan beer was better than his friend’s microbrewery back in Tevinter. “Not too difficult to be better than him, actually. ” He shrugged and frowned at his empty glass. “Have you seen Norah? I think I’d like more of this southern swill.”

“She’s dealing with those highschoolers over there.” 

Dorian’s nose wrinkled. “How long do they intend to monopolize her?”

“All night?” Bull had kept an eye on them. Who knew what a group of Fereldan teenagers would think was funny. Mostly, it seemed like they were trying to convince Norah they were old enough to order alcohol. She wasn’t having any of it. “I’ll go get the drinks. No point making extra work for her.”

Dorian snorted. “You can’t do anything without being considerate of others, can you?”

“My one weakness.” Bull agreed amiably, and slid sort of awkwardly around the booth to stand up. He caught a glimpse of Dorian’s smile, and it wasn’t exactly butterflies he felt, but it was definitely _something._

Dorian slipped out of the booth much more gracefully. “I’ll be right back. Noses to powder and whatnot.”

Bull nodded and headed toward the bar, moving a little slowly. He leaned on the bar to take some weight off his leg. “Could I get two Stormriders, please?” he asked the bartender.

There was some sort of talk show on the TV behind the bar. Women around a table, chatting about… current events, maybe?

“Not sports?” Bull asked the elf behind the bar. It seemed like the sort of place that would always have a game on. Subtitles rolled across the bottom of the screen, but the sound was on too. 

“I like to stay informed. Besides, the only teams the owner lets us show are the Wardens or the Mabaris, and neither of them have matches tonight.” She shrugged. “I can change it if you like.”

“No it’s fine.” He put his foot on the bottom rung of a stool to give his knee more of a break, and half-watched the round table discussion on the screen. His thoughts drifted to Dorian, and his plans for the rest of the evening.

“I just don’t think,” a human woman said on the TV, talking over the other people at the table, a dwarf, an elf and two other humans, “I just don’t think that we should be so quick to judge this type of thing.”

“What type of thing is that, Sybil?” The elf asked. “ _Blood magic?_ ”

The woman sputtered, and the audience laughed. “No,” she drew the vowel out petulantly, “cultural differences. Different expectations for children and family. And the son’s vanished, apparently. _That’s_ not suspicious at all.”

“I mean, can you blame him?” The dwarf shrugged.

“The police are--” the conversation devolved into yelling. Bull frowned at the TV. The subtitles, not much help in deciphering the conversation, were also covering the bubble that had popped up at the bottom of the screen. All he could read was the extremely helpful “today’s topic is...”

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Bull asked the elf.

“Not a clue,” she responded blithely, and returned to cleaning glasses.

“Right. Well, thanks.” He dug into his pocket to find a tip, dropped a bill on the counter. He went back to Dorian, who smiled brightly at him and held out a hand for his drink.

\---

Bull fell asleep with his arms wrapped around Dorian, Dorian’s head resting on his chest. He woke up to the smell of coffee, and the sound of a violin. Bull chuckled to himself; he wasn’t a late sleeper, but he hadn’t woken up before Dorian yet.

He pulled himself slowly out of bed, scrubbing his hands over his face and rubbing at the sore spots behind his horns and at his temple next to the scars. His eyepatch was on the bedside table, he left it there.

Dorian was standing, silhouetted by the window in the living room, and Bull couldn’t see most of his expression but his brow was creased in concentration, his lips turned downwards in a slight frown. A cup of coffee steamed on the windowsill, but it looked untouched. He was barefoot in Bull’s living room, a violin resting on one bare shoulder, and nothing had ever looked more natural.

Bull stood quietly in the hall, not wanting to break the spell. Dorian played softly, a little slower than the piece was meant to be, back held straight and arms bent at the perfect angles. Bull had never played a violin, but he’d seen it done countless times, and he knew that the stance of Dorian’s feet, the angle of his neck, the turn of his wrist as he held the bow, were textbook. He knew that the way movement of Dorian’s fingers across the strings, the heel of his palm arched gracefully away from the neck of the violin, was a product of hours of practice, made his hands strong and sure in the way they touched anything; that even when they were careful, they were strong.

He knew that Dorian had this piece memorized, and so many more, because even as he drew his arm out, stretching the last note to the end of his bow, he started another. From the same note, but in a different key, and somehow it worked perfectly. He stood and watched Dorian play, and couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do.

Dorian turned and smiled at him, and Bull suddenly came up with a few more ideas. “Morning routine?” He asked as Dorian slid his bow and violin carefully back into their case.

Dorian crossed the living room and tugged Bull into a kiss, one hand on the back his neck. “Something like that. It’s centering.”

“I like it. You should do that every morning.” Bull pulled Dorian closer, and he laughed. “Right there, by my window.”

“I don’t think Krem would like that,” Dorian snorted. His face was turned into Bull’s shoulder and his voice was muffled. “I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t left already.” His hand on Bull’s neck kept him close.

“Just for me then?” Bull slid a hand down Dorian’s back, trailing his fingers across dark skin. “You should come back to bed and give me a private show.”

Dorian’s mustache brushed against his chest, followed by lips. “Incorrigible,” he murmured, and turned his face up for another kiss.


	16. Eager to Please, Ready To Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull comes to an important conclusion, Cousland's entire character motivation is to make Dorian cry, and the hounds of hell have been unleashed.

Bull was learning that few things were as satisfying as taking Dorian apart in bed. Dorian was always thinking, or reading, or practicing. Even when he was sitting still he tapped his fingers on his book or twisted his mustache into shape. He moved from one idea or place to another in a way that could be overwhelming to watch from the outside. And the more anxious he was, the faster he moved.

So on top of all the normal good that was sex with a person you cared about and were attracted to, Bull relished the way that he was able to get Dorian to slow down and focus. Being the center of that focus was its own form of reward as well.

“Bull.” Dorian stared up at him, hands curled in the sheets at his side. Bull knelt with his legs between Dorians, holding him still with a firm hand splayed on his chest. “Bull, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me--”

“What’ll you do, set my curtains on fire?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His hands didn’t move from where Bull had put them, ten minutes ago. Bull hadn’t told him _not_ to move them, it wasn’t that sort of morning, but sometimes Dorian needed an anchor. Bull didn’t know how to articulate the feeling he got when he thought about how there _were_ different sorts of mornings, and nights, and the occasional afternoon.

Dorian’s hair was starting to stick to his forehead, and he was breathing hard. He closed his eyes as Bull worked his fingers deeper inside him, slow and twisting. He moved his other hand across Dorian’s chest, scratching just slightly with his fingernails, pinching lightly at a nipple, which made Dorian groan and arch his back.

“That’s not very nice.” He trailed his fingers down Dorian’s stomach, watching him twitch a little, ticklish. “Threatening my decor. I worked hard on that shit.”

“ _I’m_ not very nice?” Dorian’s hips twisted as Bull’s hand bypassed his cock and slid down his thigh. He picked up the lube, opened the cap, and slid his fingers gently out of Dorian. “You’re all the way over there and now you’re not even _touching_ me.” It sounded suspiciously close to whining, and Bull raised his eyebrows with a grin. Dorian’s face was already flushed, but it spread to his ears when he met Bull’s eye. “What? Have you somehow not caught on that I’m frightfully demanding?”

“Hey, I don’t mind.” He slipped his hand under Dorian’s thigh and lifted his leg slightly. Dorian rested his heel against the curve of Bull’s stomach and flexed his fingers around his handfuls of sheets. Bull slid on a condom, more out of habit than anything else. Dorian had marveled over the ease of getting tested in Ferelden two weeks ago, and Bull hadn’t slept with anyone else since they’d started dating. Old habits, though. He shifted his weight-- finally, his knee had been starting to ache-- and smiled down at Dorian. “Demand away, gorgeous.”

Dorian uncurled one fist from the rumpled sheets and tugged on Bull’s wrist. “Kiss me.” It wasn’t a demand, really. It bordered more on request. One that Dorian felt embarrassed by, considering that he didn’t meet Bull’s eye when he said it.

Bull kissed him, and Dorian made a small sound in the back of his throat, threading his fingers between Bull’s. 

Dorian sometimes gave up control so abruptly it was startling. He’d snipe and tease until Bull took both his wrists in one hand and squeezed, just a little, and then his eyes would soften and he’d stare up at Bull like was looking for answers. Bull was happy to provide them, in the form of instructions and requests.

Things like, “put your hands on the headboard,” “don’t move them,” “let me hear you,” and even if it made Dorian bite his lip and screw his eyes shut, he did what Bull asked of him. The noises he made when Bull was inside him...

Bull would have been fine even if this hadn’t lined up so well, if Dorian wasn’t just as into the balance that they were building in the bedroom. It was a bonus. There were plenty of other things Bull liked just as much, but there was something special about this, something about Dorian letting go and letting Bull take charge. Something special about Dorian.

Dorian moaned a little louder when Bull pressed his lips, then his teeth, to his favorite spot on Dorian’ neck. Just underneath where his violin’s chinrest would sit, so Dorian would think about him whenever he played.

He kissed Dorian again, sliding one hand down his chest just to feel the way Dorian shivered against him, leaned back just to watch Dorian’s eyes open and stare him down. “Bull,” he said, voice rough. Bull loved it, loved every noise and movement he made. “I want-- can I move my hands? I want to touch you.”

Bull looked at Dorian’s hands, curled tight around his headboard. “Not yourself?” He rubbed his thumb along the line of Dorian’s hip. Dorian laughed, or sighed, and shook his head. Every movement Bull made, slow and deep as he could keep them, made him breathe in sharply.

“I don’t want to come yet, thanks very much.”

Bull chuckled. “Careful, you keep saying things like that, might go to my head.” He kissed Dorian again as he kept fucking him. Dorian pushed up against him, didn’t move his hands.

“As if you don’t already know how you--” he gasped softly as Bull moved. “You’re just-- oh _kaffas_ , Bull _please_.” Bull really couldn’t find it in him to say no when Dorian asked like that.

“Yeah, whatever you want, Dorian.” He was ready for hands on his ass, nails in his back, something to match the edge in Dorian’s voice and the tightness in his face. What he got was trembling fingers against his cheeks, tracing the lines of his scars, holding him close so that Dorian could kiss him.

He moaned at the feeling of Dorian’s hands at the back of his head, suddenly caught as solidly as if Dorian had wrapped ropes around him. “Bull,” Dorian whispered against his lips, and he was gone.

It was with Dorian breathing his name into a kiss, with Dorian’s body straining under him, his eyes closed, that Bull finally figured it out. It was just like him, really, to realize he was in love with someone while his dick was in their ass. Dorian came quick after Bull, with a shivery little laugh that he muffled in Bull’s shoulder.

They lay in Bull’s bed after he’d cleaned them up, Dorian curled partially on top of him, dozing in the late afternoon sunlight. It took him a while to wind all his feelings back into himself. He wanted to tell Dorian, but he had to do it right. It had to be special, because how many men had told Dorian they loved him? Bull had no idea, but he had to stand out. He had to get it right.

Dorian was thinking too, he could tell. He didn’t know what about, but he didn’t want to push… anything. It was amazing to him that they were where they were at all. 

“I have a favor to ask… and you needn’t say yes, because it really would be an imposition.” His fingers drummed on his hipbone. “I would have asked Vivienne, but she’s been so concerned with Bastien lately, I don’t want to add to her worries--”

Bull put a gentle hand on Dorian’s, covering but not constricting his restless movements. “What is it?” he asked, careful to keep his voice even.

“My father’s… someone in the household.... My reasons for leaving Tevinter have become common knowledge,” he said in a rush. “And my father was arrested. I need to go to Denerim on Wednesday and talk to a lawyer that my mother recommended. It’s likely that I’ll be subpoenaed as a key witness.”

“For the prosecution?” Bull stroked the back of Dorian’s hand, thinking.

“I-- I don’t actually know.” He started up with the drumming again, his left hand against the sheets. “No one from his side has tried to contact me, but it’s not out of the question that they might try to… bribe, or threaten, me. Especially until I make some sort of official statement.”

Bull kept his movements slow and hopefully soothing. The idea of some Tevinter thug threatening Dorian made his blood boil, but that wasn’t helpful at the moment. “So you should make a statement.”

“Yes.” His hands stilled. “And I… need a ride. I can’t exactly take a bus to Denerim. If you can’t, I understand, Vivienne always says she’s happy to help--”

“Of course I’ll take you.” He pressed his lips to the top of Dorian’s shoulder, not quite a kiss. “Do you want me to come with you when you talk to the lawyer, too? So you’re not all alone in there.”

“It wouldn’t be very interesting for you,” Dorian began.

“Don’t worry about that. Do you want me there?”

Dorian took a deep breath, still straight straight at the ceiling. “Yes, please.” His voice was very quiet.

“Then I’ll go with you.” Bull watched the quick rise and fall of Dorian’s chest until it gradually slowed down.

Dorian slipped a hand around the base of his horn and tugged, hesitantly. Bull pushed himself up the bed to wrap an arm around his shoulder and kiss him. He pulled in a shaky little sigh and kissed Bull back. “I’m sorry I ruined the mood,” he mumbled.

“Nah, that’s alright.” Bull levered himself up on an elbow and looked down at him. He was frowning his self-recriminating frown, and didn’t meet Bull’s eye. “I like knowing that you trust me with this stuff.”

Dorian nodded to himself, like Bull had said something profoundly logical. “I do,” some confidence was slipping back into his tone, and that made Bull smile almost as much as the words themselves. “I’ll try to tell you more often.” He cupped a hand around the back of Bull’s neck and looked at him seriously. “Now, I trust you’ll take my mind off this? There are much more pleasant things we could be doing.”

Bull chuckled and kissed him again. “Sure, kadan. Whatever you want.”

\---

Tabris & Cousland was housed in a sleek office building in downtown Denerim, lots of wide windows with great views of the capital city, perfectly manicured plants in every corner, and a peppy secretary who guided them through a metal detector and used the credentials on her ID card to send the elevator to the correct floor. Dorian looked even more uncomfortable than Bull felt in his only non-concert suit. 

“Ms. Cousland’s office is at the end of the hall,” The receptionist said. “You can’t miss it.”

“You really don’t need to come with me,” Dorian told Bull for the third time as he checked his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. “It was very kind of you to drive me here, but this meeting’s probably going to be just paperwork and signing contracts. You’ll have nothing to do.”

“It’s alright, Dorian, really.” Bull took his hand, and tense as he was, Dorian managed a tiny smile when Bull squeezed his fingers. “We’ll go out to lunch after, make a date out of it.”

The office wasn’t busy. An elf passed them in the hall, nodding politely, but most of the people Bull could see were occupied inside their offices and payed them no attention as they walked by. Dorian continued to fidget as he led the way toward the corner office. He paused before opening the door and glanced at Bull, biting his lip indecisively.

“Say the word, Dorian. Do you want me in or out?” It would be better not to prolong the wait.

“In.” Dorian made an abortive move to take his hand, but turned away before his fingers reached Bull’s.

Ms. Cousland, whose name was on a good third of the doors in the place, stood up from behind her desk as they came in, crossing the room with a purposeful stride. She looked every inch the high-powered lawyer, from her severe bob to her frankly intimidating heels. Bull thought that Dorian might be in good hands.

“Eleanora Cousland,” she extended her hand imperiously to Dorian, who shook it like he was sizing her up.

“Dorian Pavus. Charmed.” Technically, there was no nobility in Ferelden anymore, but the name Cousland had been tied to money and power for centuries. Much like the name Pavus, Bull realized. Dorian and Cousland had both known that going in, probably, and were assessing each other politely. Cousland may have come out on top in terms of how much her wardrobe was worth, but Dorian had drawn himself up with the bearing of a performer and an altus. He didn’t back down an inch.

Cousland turned to Bull, and gave him a more cursory accounting. “Your employee will be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement,” she told Dorian.

“Sorry?” Bull said, at the same time that Dorian asked, in a scathing voice, “my _employee_?”

Cousland was taller than Dorian in her heels, but he seemed to draw himself up further as he stepped slightly between her and Bull. “The Iron Bull is my boyfriend, not my bodyguard,” he said. His voice was low and angrier than Bull had ever heard it. 

“Of course. My apologies,” she said, though it was directed more towards Dorian than Bull. She didn’t bother to look embarrassed. “Shall we get started on your statement?”

She sat in the expensive, uncomfortable-looking chair behind her desk and gestured to Bull and Dorian to take the seats across from her. “Our goals for this meeting are straightforward. To draft a statement in which you, Mr. Pavus, describe the events of the fifteenth of Ferventus of last year. In addition, we will outline for the court why requiring you to return to the Imperium to give this deposition in person would cause undue strain upon your wellbeing and livelihood.”

“Agreed.” Dorian sat tensely next to Bull as Cousland turned on her recording equipment.

“After we agree upon the exact language, I’d like to record a video of you reading it in front of a camera, for the persecution to play at the trial. Having a face behind the story will sway the jury in our favour.” She tapped at her keyboard briefly. “We may not have time for that today, but I realize distance is a factor. If it’s possible, I’d like to wrap it all up at once.”

“Yes.” Dorian was twisting his cufflink in circles.

“Let’s start with what you think your father’s motives were, and then we’ll move on to the events themselves.”

Dorian reached out and took Bull’s hand, gripping his fingers tightly. When he spoke, though, his voice was even. “My father believes he did the right thing, for me and for the family.”

It was a long story. Dorian held Bull’s hand like it was a lifeline the entire time, his other hand clenched in a fist on his thigh. He stared at the desk in front of him and spoke quietly, but clearly. Bull cradled Dorian’s hand in both of his own, and thought about all the things he’d do to Halward Pavus’s face if he ever met him. Dorian hadn’t told him every part of the story like he was doing now, outlining everything in stark words and painful detail.

Cousland typed quickly and listened with an impassive face, prompting Dorian occasionally, clarifying sentences and word choice. Would Dorian call it “trauma,” or “assault”? Was it more like a “betrayal” or a “violation”? When he left, did he have reason to believe that his father would make another attempt? What did he think of his mother’s role in this? Her face was stony throughout. Bull thought it was probably professional detachment, but he wasn’t in the mood to be understanding. She’d probably encourage Dorian to cry a bit when he recorded it, really play up the pain.

Bull could see how the questions were useful. Cousland was honing in on the parts of the story that would sell best, make the most moving story for the jury, and for the press and public, too, since the trial was front and center in the Tevene news. The more hurt Dorian looked, the more monstrous Halward seemed, the less likely that either the prosecution or the defense would go through the trouble of extricating Dorian from Ferelden. 

He could see the point of it, but he wanted nothing more than to take Dorian home and wrap him in a blanket and rip apart anyone who thought about touching him.

Cousland let them take a break when Dorian was done talking, leaving the two of them alone in her office in what seemed like an unusually tactful gesture. As soon as the door closed behind her, leaving them in relative privacy, Dorian’s composure crumbled. He curled in on himself with a shuddering sob and covered his eyes with his free hand. The other stayed locked around Bull’s fingers.

Bull leaned towards him, stroked his back softly. His shirt was slightly damp, though the office was chilly. “You did good, kadan.” He searched for something to say. “At least that part’s over.”

“Until I have to read it for a camera.” He sounded bleak.

“You don’t have to do that today.” He shouldn’t have to do it ever. What right did some group of strangers have to Dorian’s story? What right did anyone have, really.

“I might vomit,” Dorian said in an almost conversational tone, and Bull scrambled to grab Cousland’s trash can. Dorian held it between his knees and breathed as deeply as he seemed able for a long time. Bull rubbed his back in circles that he hoped were soothing, and when it seemed like Dorian wouldn’t lose the tiny breakfast he’d eaten, he got up and poured him a glass of water. 

Dorian fixed his moustache in the reflection in Cousland’s dark computer screen, then turned to Bull. “How do I look? Presentable?”

He looked exhausted. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes rimmed with just a little red, though he hadn’t actually been crying. The smile he forced was painful to watch.

“Not as good as you usually do.” Dorian snorted, but his smile got a bit more genuine. He went back to where Bull was sitting, and Bull slid an arm around around his waist to pull him closer. Dorian sighed and leaned against him.

“I’m sorry you have to sit through this.” 

Bull looked up at him. “Shit, Dorian, you don’t need to apologize for this. I’m sorry you have to go through this all again.”

Dorian pulled away, restless again. “It is what it is. Not talking about it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. This is necessary.”

“Still sucks.”

“Yes.”

\---

Cousland came back with an edited script for Dorian to approve and a pile of paperwork for him to sign. He worked slowly though it, reading carefully, asking questions. He’d done his research; he wanted to understand everything he was putting his signature to. It was exhausting, of course. Bull must have been uncomfortable in the chair next to him, but he didn’t even fidget.

“I was under the impression that extradition is specific to someone who’s committed a crime in one country and fled to another.” Dorian tapped his pen against the paper on the top of the stack, and watched Cousland carefully. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, he just knew her type. 

“Well, it could technically be argued that you were a participant in an illegal blood magic ritual--”

“ _Participant_!” Dorian’s throat tightened and his stomach turned at the thought. “I was not _participating_ in anything.”

“We’re just covering our bases, Mr. Pavus.” Cousland sat painfully straight in her chair, her tightness of her laced fingers the only indication she had any opinions of her own. “There’s precedent for the defense to use that line of argument. If you testify, it should be on your terms, not theirs.”

It made sense. “I do hate that country,” he said to Bull. He focused on not boiling the ink in Cousland’s very expensive pen. “ _Precedent,_ ” he muttered. “Barbarians.”

“Alright.” Bull’s voice startled him. He’d been so quiet. “We’ve been here almost five hours. How much longer is this going to take?” His hand was solid and grounding on Dorian’s thigh, and he glared and Cousland like the whole thing was her fault. It was very nearly sweet.

“As long as it needs to,” Cousland didn’t bother with any honorifics for Bull. Dorian scowled at her. She didn’t seem phased by by either of them, but she took Dorian’s stack of unsigned papers and leafed through them. “But the rest of these should be fairly self-explanatory, I suppose, so if you’d like to take them with you and mail them back on your own time, that would be acceptable.”

“Let’s do that.” Bull sounded like he was running out of patience. Dorian felt guilty that his first thought was relief that he could use Bull as a way to end the meeting, and not for Bull’s feelings.

“If you insist,” Cousland said, and pulled a thick envelope out of her desk.

Bull muttered something that sounded a lot like “I _do_ insist.” Cousland ignored him and shuffled the papers into the envelope, then stamped the outside with the firm’s address.

“One last thing,” she said as Bull stood up. “You must by now be aware that the Tevinter media cycle is in full swing.” Dorian nodded. “We cannot technically forbid reporters from approaching you, but if their actions border on harassment, tell me immediately. Your safety and wellbeing are paramount.” It was the kindest thing she’d said so far.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

She handed him the envelope. “We’ll be in touch tomorrow or the day after to schedule a recording session, Mr. Pavus.”

“I’ll look for your call,” Dorian assured her as Bull ushered him out of the office. The receptionist nodded cordially to them on the way out, and Bull walked close behind him, his hand on the small of Dorian’s back grounding and solid.

Dorian hadn’t realized just how much tension he’d been holding until Bull steered him into a small park next to the office building and sat him down on a bench. “There’s a hotdog cart over there.” Bull motioned somewhere behind Dorian. “Do you want water or something?”

“Alright.” Dorian wasn’t at all interested in food, but Bull looked like he needed something to do. He watched his hands for the time that Bull was gone, and took the bottle that he brought back. It was wonderfully cold, and he rolled it between his hands before he twisted the cap off. ”I’m sorry that took so long.”

Bull sat down next to him with a sigh. “You really don’t need to apologize.”

“Can I apologize for the way Cousland treated you?” Dorian’s _employee_ indeed.

“Not your fault either.” Bull’s leg pressed against his. Dorian looked at him, face twisted in an unhappy frown. It softened a little when he met Dorian’s eyes. “I’m just pissed that you have to deal with this at all.”

Dorian considered him, and the way his arm rested on the back of the bench behind him, not touching but protective all the same. “Thank you for coming with me, Bull.” He would have managed on his own, somehow. It would likely have been even more awful. “I’m glad you were here.”

Bull smiled and his hand drifted to Dorian’s shoulder. “Any time, Dorian. I mean it.”

\---

In the end, there wasn’t a pack of reporters. There were only six. But by the Maker and his bride, they were persistent.

They popped up, all at once, while he was leaving a long, frustrating rehearsal. Just strings and brass, because they desperately needed to work together, and hadn’t been, so far. He was tired and complaining to Cullen about his upstairs neighbors when the first flashbulb went off in his face.

“Dorian!” One of them shouted. He had a Tevene accent. “Is it true your father was angling for a commision from the Archon? He thought your tendencies would get in the way?”

“Did your father use any other blood magic in the house?” Another asked, shoving into Cullen.

“Did you come to Ferelden to be with someone?” A third looked around the group of confused musicians, landed on Blackwall. “Is this him?”

Dorian stood, frozen, as their questions got louder, more pointed, more painful. One of them said something about Felix, and he nearly dropped his violin. Vivienne appeared next to him, a cone of ice swirling in her hand. The reporters backed off a step or two.

“I’ll be in touch with all of your employers,” she informed them coldly. “And if you disrupt our rehearsals again there will certainly be consequences.”

Dorian wanted to sink into the ground when she turned to him. “You’re not going home on the bus tonight, are you?” He shook his head. He’d already made plans to go out with Bull. Maybe they’d spend the night in, though. “Good. These jackals would probably follow you.”

Everyone was looking curiously between him and the reporters. Dorian was fairly certain his face was actually on fire. “Vivienne, I’m sorry that they came here--”

“It isn’t your fault.” Bull’s voice was gruff, and he stood a pace or two away from Dorian, arms folded. He glared at reporters and staring orchestra members alike. Dorian felt relieved that he wasn’t closer, so that no photos would imply anything that would get Bull caught up in his mess. It was a stupid thought, and sat wrong with him for some reason, but he couldn’t help it.

Josephine and Cassandra emerged, and the reporters finally dispersed under their combined assault. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” Josephine assured him, like he needed comforting and wasn’t inconveniencing everyone around him. She put a hand on his arm and looked seriously into his eyes. “Dorian, I want you to know that you have support here. I know I’m your boss, but you can ask me for help.”

He stared at her, then turned to Bull and Vivienne. Neither met his eyes. “A conspiracy,” he said, more lightly than he felt. “Well, at least you’re all on my side. Thank you, Josephine.” 

She nodded earnestly. “I have contacts high up in most of the magazines that might buy their pictures--”

“Oh, it’s all right.” Dorian cut her off with a wave. “They’re just trying to make a living. I appreciate your… understanding.”

“Your skills are too valuable to lose you to something as petty as international politics,” she told him, and somehow it was the most reassuring thing he’d heard all day.

Bull trailed behind him as he crossed the parking lot, and slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat. “You still want to go out?” he asked.

Dorian stared at his violin case sitting in his lap and focused on his breathing for long enough that Bull cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’d rather you take me straight home,” he said.

“Yeah, okay.” Bull still sounded unsure, but pulled out of his parking spot and drove slowly toward the front gate of the castle.

“You told Josephine,” he finally said as they were crossing the causeway, “about all of it?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Bull’s eye didn’t leave the road, so far as Dorian could tell. “She’s smart, she’s connected. She probably figured it out on her own.”

Dorian stopped himself before he started to grind his teeth. He didn’t need to sound so _reasonable_ about it. “I was going to tell her.”

“Now you don’t need to.”

“Is this your idea of _helping_ again? Airing my dirty laundry to my employer without me even _knowing_?” 

Bull pulled over and turned to face him. “Dorian, I didn’t--”

“ _Someone_ did.”

“Hey,” Bull put his hand over Dorian’s where it was clenched on the handle of his violin case. “I really think she and Leliana figured it out. No one’s been going behind your back with this.”

“I should have been the one to tell her,” Dorian muttered. He wasn’t sure if he was more angry or embarrassed.

Bull squeezed his hand gently and Dorian looked at him. His face was shadowed by his horns, but his smile was visible. He was trying to be comforting, Dorian thought. Nothing Bull could do at the moment would actually make the night much better, but it was nice that he was trying.

\---

At least the Chargers weren’t interested in talking about the reporters at the dinner the next day. Rocky and Bee had adopted a wiggly little mabari puppy, and everyone was much more interested in his exploration of Bull and Krem’s apartment than anything to do with Dorian. Bets had been placed on whether or not Ataashi would like him. She hadn't come out from under Krem's bed yet, so the even split between "fury" and "love" hadn't come to anything.

Dorian didn’t mind becoming a standard part of the Chargers’ Dinners. They were a nice foil to the dinner parties he’d attended when he studied in Minrathous. Ferelan beer instead of Tevinter wine, pizza instead of caviar, spending the night in Bull’s bed instead of skulking about after a hasty assignation in a dark room.

And the movies. The Chargers had decided that they were responsible for broadening his understanding of non-Tevinter popular culture. After they made sure he stayed awake through Fight Club, there were zombie movies and action films and the antithesis of Dorian’s usual art house fare: the romcom.

“Alright.” Dalish held up two DVD cases. “You get to choose this time. Sixteen Candles or The Wedding Singer.” 

Krem groaned theatrically. “Neither?” he suggested. “What about one of those animated movies? I like the one with the wolves.”

Dalish’s face twisted in comic indecision. “No,” she concluded. “Princess Mononoke is _next_ week.”

Dagna came in with a huge bowl of popcorn in either hand, Sera following with a six pack and a huge bottle of soda. That wasn’t all of it, Dorian knew. Bull and Grim had been busy in the kitchen since he’d arrived. “Wedding Singer,” Dagna said, dropping one bowl in Dorian’s lap. “At least the actors are the same ages as their characters. It’s so weird when they want me to think that someone in their thirties is actually a highschool student.”

“Fair,” Dalish said, and pushed Krem out of the way to get to the DVD player.

“So I don’t actually get to choose?” Dorian asked, just to make them laugh. He didn’t really care.

Bull tried to slide into the space between Dorian and the end of the couch, which could maybe have fit Sera, so Dorian was forced to rearrange the entire precarious setup of popcorn and open beer bottle. He wound up almost on top of Bull, but really, that was an improvement.

“What can I expect from this one?” He asked quietly as Dalish and Skinner squabbled over a pillow. Ataashi prowled along the back of the couch to curl on Bull’s shoulder. “Misunderstandings? Dramatic declarations? A painful amount of second-hand embarrassment?”

“All three,” Bull assured him. Dorian heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Nobody acts like this in real life,” he muttered in horror when the characters spilled their drama on everyone in the _airplane_. “Those poor extras. That man behind her is clearly flying across the country for a funeral, he doesn’t care about some self-centered asshole and his problems.”

Bull chuckled. “You don’t think it’s romantic?”

“I _suppose_.” Dorian pulled his feet off the floor to lean closer to Bull. “But also mortifying. I can’t imagine what I’d do in her place.”

Bull wrapped his arm around Dorian. “You staying over tonight?” he muttered into his hair.

“I could be tempted,” Dorian said back. “If you make sure Ataashi doesn’t interrupt us like last time. You're the only one allowed to leave marks like that.”

Bull laughed loud enough that Sera turned around and smacked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com) Come say hi! <3


	17. What's Written In Your History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem's a good boyfriend, Sera's a good friend, and Dorian is..... a train wreck, mostly.

Bull did _not_ ask to go with Dorian when he met with Josephine and Leliana over to dinner to talk about his plans. He didn’t even ask to go with him and Vivienne back to Tabris  & Cousland when he had to film that damned video.

He pulled the Chargers together for rehearsal, instead. He was sort of starting to feel like he was neglecting them, anyways. He brought his guitar to Rocky and Bee’s house, and everyone else was already there when he ducked into the garage. He liked their space. It had all the generations of the Charger’s posters on the wall, a massive cooler, and a comfortable couch that had once been cheerful pink, and was now faded gray-ish floral. It was all comfortable. It was theirs.

They spent the afternoon jamming, going over their old standards, even messing around with a few new pieces. Bull stuck to his guitar, letting Krem sing his heart out. He seemed nervous, shifting from the couch, to the wall, even sitting on the cooler during a bridge that turned into Bull and Stitches riffing off each other for five minutes.

They took a break after almost an hour. Not the longest they’d ever gone, but Bull was thirsty, and Grim missed a few beats in the last song and began scowling at his sticks in that way that he did when he was really frustrated.

“Alright,” Krem said with a fatalistic tone as Rocky opened a beer can. “Nobody laugh at me, but I want to suggest a new song.”

“No promises,” said Dalish, and flopped backward onto the couch to watch him avidly.

“Lace and I will have been dating for four years next month,” he started, “and we’re doing the fancy dinner stuff at that place she likes, but I thought that I should do something… special.”

Bull clapped him happily on the shoulder. Krem only staggered a little. “Sounds great, Krem-puff! What’re we singing? Bon Jovi? Aerosmith?” Yeah, he could see it now. “Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing, right? That’s a good one. Cheesy, but classic.”

“Here’s the thing,” Krem was starting to fidget, which he hardly ever did. “It started as a joke, alright? It was on the radio, and Lace started singing along, but it kept… _coming back_ , y’know? And it turned into, well, _our song_ , and--”

“Just spit it out,” Rocky said.

Krem mumbled something barely audible. Dalish toppled off the couch in hysterics. “You’re telling me--” she wiped at her eyes and giggled until she started to hiccup.

“It’s not _that_ funny,” Krem muttered, face red. But he was smiling a little too.

“Wanna let us in on the joke?” asked Stitches.

“Krem wants us to sing Backstreet Boys. Their _song_ is As Long As You love Me.” She fell into giggles again, joined by half the Chargers.

“How does that even happen?” said Rocky. 

“It was a joke at first,” Krem said again. “But, pretend to be serious enough times and you wind up actually listening to the lyrics?”

Grim, looking completely unruffled except for the height of his eyebrows, tapped out a phrase on the side of his drum and grinned to himself.

“You _know_ it already?” Skinner asked.

Grim shrugged.

“I’m down,” said Stitches. “You introduce it, you sing it, you get all the attention. I’m happy to be an instrument of your humiliation.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Bull interjected. “We can totally learn it in a month.”

Krem still looked embarrassed, but his smile was growing. “It has to be a surprise,” he said. “Lace can’t suspect anything.”

Grim mimed zipping his lips.

\---

Dorian was starting to get used to it. Waking up beside a man was nothing new, but waking up next to Bull was an entirely different experience. Clinging arms, comforting smell, and mostly, the option to return to bed later. He could stumble to Bull’s bathroom and wash his face, and then go back. If he didn’t, Bull followed him. It was strange.

“Come back to bed,” Bull murmured against his bare neck, wide hands gripping Dorian’s waist as he stood in front of the sink. “Leave the toothbrush,” Bull muttered, taking it from Dorian’s hand. It was new, Bull had bought it for him. “You’ve been in here too long.”

“Some of us prefer to feel clean sometimes,” Dorian said, no heat in the words, watching Bull smile in the mirror. Bull leaned against him, face pressed into his hair.

“We can shower after.” Like that wouldn’t wind up dirty too. “Krem’s out, we can be as loud as we want. Let me take care of you.” His teeth grazed the top of Dorian’s ear.

It scared him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate, the way Bull was looking at him. Not sudden panic and short breath, not really; not fear based on memories. Fear of the unknown. Fear that he’d let himself take too much. Fear that he would betray the trust he could see in Bull’s eye.

Bull was possibly the best man that Dorian had ever known.

Dorian let Bull pull him back to the bedroom, let him pull off the sweatpants Dorian had grabbed and kiss him, deep and slow. He tangled his feet in the sheets and let himself be swept away under Bull’s touches. He let Bull hold him and move him and keep him away from the outside world a little longer. Under Bull’s eyes, under his body, Dorian found it too easy to get lost. 

He wondered, as this thing with Bull kept billowing out into something more, something _real_ , when it would fall apart. Because it had to, right? There was no way he could keep someone like Bull around. Bull was too easy going, too giving, too _kind_ , and Dorian was an anxious mess on his good days.

Eventually, Bull would get tired of him. And it would hurt (it would hurt _a lot_ ) but Dorian was selfish enough, and self-destructive enough, to take what he could get until then.

\---

“Sera,” Dorian ventured as they left another less-than-productive strings-only rehearsal, “let’s go for a drink. Not at the Herald, somewhere else, where you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.”

“Somewhere Maryden’s not, you mean,” she heaved a despondent sigh and locked the spare room she stored her cello in sometimes.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Did you ride with someone or did you bring your bike?” He didn’t really feel up to a group outing, but hitching a ride downtown would be better than taking the bus.

“It’s parked ‘round the stables,” Sera said, thankfully. Riding on the back of her motorbike was always an adventure, but the solitary nature of it fit his mood.

He strapped on the spare helmet, though it didn’t really fit and was an obnoxiously bright shade of yellow, and shrugged when she asked if he had a place in mind. “You choose. Somewhere with booths maybe, instead of a dancefloor.” Maybe they could go to a club later, but first he wanted food and to take his violin home.

“I know where we should go. It’s all my people, so you won’t have to look over your shoulder either.”

Dorian nodded in acknowledgement. The reporters hadn’t come back to the castle yet, but they popped up in twos or threes practically everywhere he went. Sera had nearly punched one of them the other day.

They didn’t talk much as he dropped off his instrument and grabbed a heavier coat, and not at all as Sera drove them through downtown Skyhold to a little hole-in-the-wall bar. “Jennie’s does good food,” was the only thing she said. “And they always let me take leftovers home when I worked there. Everyone’s good people-- _people_ people so don’t go turning your fancy nose up at someone’s clothes, alright?”

“Cross my heart,” he assured her. “I won’t embarrass you in front of anyone who matters."

“They all matter,” she muttered.

“I figured.” Dorian smiled and patted her arm. She punched his shoulder in return.

They got a few looks that settled somewhere between hostile and curious, and Dorian had no doubt that he wouldn’t have been welcome without Sera. She chatted with the bartender briefly, introduced him-- he waved awkwardly, rather than attract more attention with his accent-- and led him to a booth in the dim back corner, grabbing silverware from the young elf rolling sets into napkins, but no menus.

“You’ll like the sausage on a stick,” she said, but barely made a joke out of it, which told him just as much about her mood as her indrawn silence earlier. “And the fried mushrooms. They’re like the ones Dagna makes.”

“I am in your hands,” Dorian said as a dwarf Dorian had thought was a customer (he’d been sitting at the bar with a whiskey tumbler after all) brought them each a bottle of beer and nodded at Sera’s food order.

Sera opened the bottles with her lighter and passed one to Dorian. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

She took a long swallow of beer. “Not really.” Another sip. “It’s stupid.”

“Not if it matters to you.”

She eyed him across the table. “You’re just a pile of smushy feelings under all the fancy, aren’t you?”

Dorian shrugged and leaned back in the booth. “When friends prove themselves worthy of smushiness.”

She snorted, then sighed again. “It’s just that sometimes, you _feel_ things, you know? For people, and shite like that. But then it turns out that the person you thought you cared about, or whatever, they’re not really that person. You just made them up to be that on your own.”

Dorian nodded and took a sip of his own beer. “And the person they actually are turns out to be sort of shit.”

“Yeah,” Sera said. “You know. You _do_ know.” They drank their beer in quiet for a few minutes. “It’s just, I kinda thought that she was good for me. Made me better and shit like that.”

“You know I like you just fine the way you are,” he said. He sounded disgustingly earnest. Then again, he felt disgustingly earnest as well.

“You’re not drunk on one bottle, are you?” she asked, and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand while she said it. Dorian caught a brief glimpse of her smile all the same. “I know that, fancytits, but I mean better like, for her and because of her.” She pulled a napkin out of the beat-up dispenser and started folding it into triangles.

“I know.” Dorian reached across the table and gripped her hand, she looked surprised but squeezed back. “Endings always hurt a little, even if you know you’re better off afterwards.”

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” she asked.

He rolled the beer bottle between his hands for a minute. “The video of me talking about it will be on the internet soon enough,” he said finally.

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna watch it if you say not to. You can tell me, or I can not know. Your dad’s a fucktrumpet, I’d deck him if I met him, but your personal shit’s your personal shit. And it’s not like I’ve spilled all my guts to you.” She waved a hand expressively. “People aren’t for-- public consumption, or whatever.”

He smiled, and she rolled her eyes. “You’re a good person, Sera,” he said over the plates of food the waiter slid across the table. “A good friend.”

“Whatever, prisspants. Eat your sausage before it gets cold.”

\---

They played most of the set like normal. Sera sat in her perch on the second-story banister, cup in hand. Dorian, Harding and Bee slid up to the front of the crowd at some point three or four songs in, apparently leaving to get drinks for the other two in shifts. Bull didn’t bother to hide the smile he got seeing Dorian having fun with his friends, or how it grew when he and Dorian caught each other’s eyes throughout the night.

Performing with his boys was better than with the Orchestra, in some ways. SSO performances were Big Deals, carefully choreographed and planned from the order everyone walked on stage to how long they stood for applause. Playing with the Chargers, especially at the Herald, was like one long continuation of a really good jam session, just having fun and sticking to a loose plan instead of Josie’s itemized checklist.

The lights were hot, the crowd was excited, Krem and Skinner were back to their acrobatics, and Dorian was dancing. He grinned at Bull, face bright in the moving lights, and yeah, Bull was definitely in love with this shiny, sexy ‘Vint. Weird how the world was like that. Bull wasn’t going to complain, though. 

For the last song of the set, Bull switched out his blue ax for his acoustic. Skinner fiddled with the pegs on her bass a bit; they were starting to slip sometimes. Krem took a drink of water and stepped back up to the microphone.

“Okay, this next song is dedicated to a very special someone.” They’d talked with going over-the-top ridiculous with it, but Krem had wanted to play it straight. He said it was funnier deadpan, but Bull thought that was a cover for his actual feelings. Genuine, sort of mushy feelings that he’d accidentally attached to a boy band. Well, there were worse choices.

And, honestly, Bull could see himself doing something similar in three and a half years.

The club got louder when they played the opening notes-- confusion, hilarity, and Harding clasped her hands under her chin and fluttered her eyelashes at Krem while Bee howled with laughter.

Bull prided himself on the fact that whatever the Chargers played, they played it well. Some people stopped dancing, but just as many were laughing and singing along. Krem sang to Harding, and Bull watched Dorian dancing and laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was good, he thought. He wanted to see Dorian like that more often.

Honestly, the song itself was…. Well, there were only about ten lines of lyrics, and about half as many chords. It was easy and fun, if you weren’t too snobby. The last chorus had some backup echoes that Bull and Skinner sang into a mic. Skinner sang into the mic, and Bull leaned half-heartedly down toward it. He could project well enough without it.

He met Dorian’s gaze, startled by its intensity. Dorian looked beautiful, the colored lights shifting across his face, and Bull remembered the first time he’d seen him, from this stage. He was able to look like he belonged anywhere, Bull thought, though he was probably biased. The places Dorian looked best were where Bull was-- his car, his bed, his kitchen table.

There was a roar of applause when they finished-- the Chargers always went out on a high note, and tonight was no exception. Normally, the crowd being this loud meant they’d stick around for an encore, but Krem was grinning at Harding so widely Bull didn’t think he’d be able to sing.

Bull wrapped up the show, telling people to drive safe, tip the bartenders, the usual, while everyone else filed off stage and Krem hopped off the front to swing Harding in his arms. Dorian and Bee leaned on each other, still laughing. Dorian wiped surreptitiously at his eyes and glanced up at Bull. He smiled, and Bull smiled back, so hard his face hurt.

\---

Dorian was determined not to let anything change about his life. Just because he’d described his father’s… transgressions… in excruciating detail, just because the video was doing the rounds on the internet, didn’t mean that he had to live in hiding.

But it hadn’t occurred to him that people-- regular people on the street-- might recognize him. He was utterly blindsided the first time it happened. Unprepared, caught flat-footed, whatever one wished to call it. He’d been having a good day.

He was exploring an indoor farmers’ market with Bull. Sera had had a few choice words to say about the place, but a local apiary had a stall, and she seemed happy enough keeping herself and Dagna occupied there.

It was charming enough, to be sure. There were flowers and produce from local farms, but for Dorian, the star was Vashoth woman with a tiny portable stove and the best food he’d eaten in months. She and her husband heated up portions of curry and noodles packed in tupperware containers, and Dorian hadn’t tasted anything as wonderful in ages. Between the two of them, he and Bull ordered four portions, heaped with sauces and spices and everything he hadn’t realized he’d missed so badly. 

They brought the food back to Sera and Dagna, who’d claimed a table in a corner. Sera turned her nose up at the spices, but Dagna’s dwarven palate was similar to Dorian’s. They were all teasing Sera when Dorian noticed the attention they were getting from a neighboring table.

As soon as he met her eyes, the woman stood up. She didn’t look angry, but Dorian had no idea what to do as she came towards them. She planted herself between their table and the rest of the space and placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Shocked, he let her.

“Andraste will see you through this struggle, child,” she told him seriously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Maker will punish the cruel and protect the innocent,” she said, eyes bright. “You are safe in Ferelden. Blood magic will not reach you here.”

Dorian was on his feet before he realized it, Bull, Sera and Dagna close behind him.

“Who’re you t’be bargin’ in on people’s lives, you shitwipe?” Sera shouted. Bull’s hand was on Dorian’s wrist, but he pulled away.

“What do you know about blood magic?” he asked around the burning tightness in his throat. What could she know about anything he’d been through?

She opened her mouth again, but Dorian didn’t actually want to hear anything she had to say. Instead of doing something supremely embarrassing, like summoning a spirit or starting to cry, he pushed past her (not as roughly as he could have) and left the farmers’ market, the automatic doors hissing closed behind him.

Dorian turned left at the end of the block, then left again, then right, then lost track of where he was entirely. He kept walking, anxious energy propelling him forward until he crossed a street into an extremely Fereldan sort of park. He skirted the small open grass and very nearly went into the trees before he realized that they were much fuller, deeper, and darker than any park would have been allowed to get in Tevinter. Better to be lost somewhere he could see paved roads.

He stayed on the gravel path that wound from the trees to a pond. It would have been idyllic if he hadn’t been thoroughly panicked.

Dorian sat heavily on a bench, wishing that the flickering streetlamp behind him would make up its mind. He didn’t need the extra melodrama, thanks very much. He was doing just fine on his own. He was cold, lost in some park in downtown Skyhold, having recently made the first moves in a highly public legal battle with his father, and if running out on their date didn’t piss Bull off, he didn’t know what would. 

Predictably, that was when it started to rain.

His phone made a noise, startling him. He had a voicemail, apparently. He hadn’t even noticed it ringing.

It was from Bull, which he really should have expected. He stared at the screen, not really thinking anything, until a trickle of rainwater slid under the collar of his shirt and down his spine. He called back.

Bull picked up almost immediately. “Dorian, thank fuck.” He sounded out of breath and upset. Of course he did, thought Dorian, how else was a date with a Pavus supposed to end? “Where the hell did you go? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine-- no, I’m not fine, I’m sorry I left, I just…” His words tumbled to a stop. He took a deep breath through his teeth.

“Can I come get you? Or bring you your coat, at least?” Bull asked after Dorian didn't start speaking again.

Dorian looked around. “I’m in a park, I think? There’s a statue of a woman with a sword. Not Andraste. A qunari.”

“I know the place. Sit tight.”

“Where would I go? A Chantry, maybe?” It was painful to pretend to laugh.

“Dorian--” Bull made a noise of frustration. “Look. I’m on my way, but I have to hang up so I can drive. Will you stay put?”

“Yes.” It’s not like he’d even know where he was going, if he went anywhere.

The rain let up while he was waiting, slowing to a frigid drizzle that made Dorian regret everything in his life that had led up to that moment. He was feeling extremely maudlin by the time Bull found him, feet crunching on the wet gravel path.

Bull handed him his coat wordlessly, and Dorian draped it across his shoulders instead of struggling to pull it over his wet shirt.

They looked at each other, neither talking.

“I needed some air,” Dorian said.

“So you walked fifteen blocks away without a coat.” Bull stepped closer to him, and Dorian kicked at a pebble, refusing to meet his eyes. The silence stretched between them until Dorian shivered. “Sera and Dagna took the bus home. Sera was ready to punch that woman’s lights out for upsetting you.”

“I’m not upset.”

The noise Bull made was pained. “Fuck, Dorian, you don’t need to lie to me.” Dorian watched his own hands clench and unclench. 

“You know I used to go to the Chantry every week? I haven’t been to a service since I’ve been in Fereldan.”

“Is that something you want to do?” Bull sounded skeptical. “There’s gotta be places you can find out about that, right? Stitches is Andrastrian, he’s gotta know a place.”

“Not at this particular moment.” He wished Bull would sit down. He looked so worried. Dorian rubbed a hand tiredly across his forehead. “I’m sorry I overreacted like this. I was having a good time until-- well.”

“I don’t think you overreacted at all. What sort of asshole just _does_ that?”

Dorian shrugged and stood up. “Plenty of people want to tell me their opinion. At least she was trying to be helpful and not telling me to get out of her country.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this crap,” Bull grumbled.

“Such is a life of celebrity in the internet age.”

Bull watched him evenly until Dorian sighed heavily. He reached out, suddenly wanting contact, to feel less adrift. Bull’s hand was damp but warm. “If anyone gives you trouble, you just tell me or Sera, alright?”

“What 80’s highschool movie did you get that line from?” Dorian asked. “Regardless, I can’t ask you to fight my battles for me. They’re barely even battles, anyways.”

“You don’t have to ask.” Bull responded. He sounded so gentle and earnest. It wasn’t fair to him, that Dorian be like this.

“That’s not the point, Bull.” His jaw ached, his hands were cold. His eyes hurt from almost crying for so long.

“Isn’t it?” Bull pressed his lips to Dorian’s forehead, a frustratingly sweet gesture. “I’m not going anywhere, Dorian.”

He looked up at Bull, trying to parse the layers of meaning that seemed to have. Bull gazed back, eye soft but steady , and Dorian wondered yet again if he was worthy of that sort of look.

Bull kissed him, and Dorian leaned into it, leaned into Bull and imagined that it was really that simple. “Hey, Dorian.” He stopped short, kissed Dorian again quickly, then took a deep breath.

Dorian waited. Bull stared at him, expression strange. “Take your time,” Dorian said, and smiled. He could try to be patient as patient with Bull as Bull was with him. “Not like it’s freezing out here or anything.”

Bull laughed, the tension-relief sort of laugh that Dorian knew well, and took a deep breath. His hands twitched against Dorian’s skin like he wasn’t sure if he should move them. “I just--” Dorian’s gaze slipped to his lips. He’d never seen Bull unsure enough to bite his lip like that. It was distracting. “Dorian,” Bull said, and the sound of his voice pulled Dorian’s attention right back to his eye. “I want to take care of you, alright? I want to be with you. You were so happy earlier. I want to help you always be that happy.”

Dorian smiled reassuringly. “I’ve been happier, you know, when I’m with you. You do--”

“No, I mean--” his hands shook slightly, Dorian noticed. “I love you.”

The world jolted on its axis as Dorian sat down hard on the bench. “You _what_?” 

Bull twisted his hands together briefly. “I’m in love with you,” he said.

Dorian stared at him. “ _Why_?”

Bull sat down next to Dorian, gently, with plenty of space between them, and looked him the eye. “Why not?”

Dorian groped for a response that wasn’t _because I’m me_. “Isn’t it-- Are you sure? I mean, don’t you think it’s… soon?” Dorian didn’t really have a good picture of how long… these things… usually took. Was months, six months or thereabout, fast?

“I wouldn’t know,” Bull said, sitting still and quiet while Dorian fidgeted. 

Dorian had no idea what to _do_. The word had never crossed his mind, he couldn’t figure out how to wrap his brain around Bull… around Bull being in love with him. He needed to say something, he wanted to say the _right_ thing. All he could say was, “I’m not sure if I can--”

“You don’t need to.” Bull finally did touch him then, his hand on Dorian’s. Dorian clung to it. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I don’t understand you,” Dorian admitted, utterly adrift.

Bull shrugged, like maybe he’d didn’t understand entirely either. “Do you want to go back to the market?” he asked. “Or I could take you home if you want. It’s kinda wet out here is all.” His voice was as casual as it had been full of emotion a moment before. He stood up quickly, wiping rain from his face.

Dorian stared at him. Since when did _Bull_ backtrack like that? Clearly, they had to talk about this. And just as clearly, Dorian was the one who had to start the conversation. That was something he was in no way equipped to do. The very idea of it terrified him.

“Bull, wait.”

Dorian watched his shoulders fall. “Don’t worry about it, Dorian. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“I don’t feel pressured.” Dorian ran a hand through his hair and realized it was hopelessly ruined. “I just--”

“Nah, it’s my own fault for getting ahead of things, I guess.”

“It’s no one’s fault, I think. I just-- I never accounted for this eventuality.”

“What, someone loving you?” Bull covered Dorian’s hand with his own.

“It sounds sad when you say it like that.” Dorian protested. They looked at each other, Bull just as unsure as Dorian. Perhaps more. “Will you… will you give me some time? I just, I need to think, I suppose.” 

Bull nodded. “As long as you need.” He was so frustratingly _sincere._ The man was a marvel, truly. “Can I kiss you?”

Dorian would have had to be either a far better or a far worse person to refuse him that, but he wasn’t sure which. 

Bull’s hands were warm on his face, cupping his cheeks too carefully, like he thought Dorian might break. Or leave.

“I care, you know.” Dorian said it more fiercely than he meant to, and Bull blinked at him. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”

“Dorian…” Dorian put a finger over his lips to stall whatever he was about to say.

“I’m not entirely certain how one goes about falling in love, but I’m going to try.”

Bull’s eye crinkled in a soft smile. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

Being laughed at made Dorian stubborn. “Well, I’ll let you know when I prove that it is.” He bit his lip. “You deserve that.”

“Dorian, really, I just wanted to tell you. I’m not asking for you to make yourself feel something that you don’t.”

“You hardly ask for anything.” Not that _that_ was something Dorian wanted to get into at the moment. He met Bull’s eye seriously. “If I can play Ernst’s solos, I’m sure I can manage to fall in love with someone like you. In the meantime, I’d like to get out of this rain.”

Bull kissed him again, and Dorian was still uncomfortably wet, but he would happily put up with much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Dorian will get his shit together eventually.
> 
> And if you're not familiar with [Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst's violin compositions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWNCbpwC-PQ), I highly recommend that you check them out. (I'm a nerd, what's new?)


	18. Uptown Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian zones out in the shower, drinks coffee, and deals with an expected visitor.

It was stupid of him to have thought he’d wake up with an answer. 

Dorian tossed and turned for half an hour before he finally dragged himself into the shower, then got distracted part-way through washing his hair and wound up staring at the wall, shampoo suds sliding down his back.

Dagna’s podcast hummed on the other side of the wall. Something about mountains? He got lost in the quiet drone of the speaker, the rush of the water, rubbing his hands idly through his hair even after the soap had been washed away.

He kept thinking through the night before, and hitting block after block. The usual anxiety fogged up his ability to remember specifics, but he knew there was the farmers’ market, there was the stranger, then leaving, and then Bull tracking him down and taking him home, making him tea and sitting quietly with him while he gritted his teeth and somehow, nearly miraculously, didn’t cry.

That’s what had _happened_. That, and Bull. Bull had happened to him, Dorian thought, like Bull was an experience and not just a person. He laughed at himself. It was true, though. Person or experience, however, Bull was part of his life now, and he couldn’t imagine Ferelden without him. 

But was he in _love_? Could he give Bull what he was asking for?

This was why Dorian usually showered _after_ he drank his first two cups of coffee. 

He shut off the water and toweled himself off roughly, scrubbing his arms until he felt his skin start to tingle. He shaved slowly, twisting the points of his moustache and examining his hair critically in the mirror when he was done. He’d need to cut it soon. Was it worth finding a real barber? Sera had a pair of clippers, he knew, and Bull probably did.

It wasn’t fair that Bull seemed so sure of himself, Dorian thought as he styled his hair into decency. He’d sounded so certain, so solid. He loved Dorian, and he _wanted_ to.

Dorian paused in putting on his eyeliner, and met his own gaze in the mirror. Going down this path with Bull… it would mean staying in Ferelden. It would mean pictures together on facebook, and deciding if they would visit his mother for the holidays. It would mean compromise, and fighting, and Bull looking at him like he was the whole world. The way he already did.

It was either that or ending it. Full commitment or none, because if he couldn’t give Bull everything he deserved, he should stop before they both got hurt-- got hurt worse.

So: breaking it off because he was terrified of being responsible for someone else’s heart, of giving someone else the ability to hurt him. It would mean walking away from Bull, from an entire part of his life that he’d work to build. It would mean turning his back on--

The prickle of tears in his eyes was more startling than it should have been. He tilted his head back and blinked rapidly, unwilling to smudge his makeup more than halfway through applying it.

Well, he heaved a sigh. At least he knew what he _didn’t_ want.

\---

They were at the Herald, watching some new act that Maryden insisted was the next big thing in Skyhold. 

He hadn’t been listening for at least two songs. He read the email three times, then put down his phone and drained his drink. Either his mother had sent it herself, or her PA was getting better at mimicking her syntax. Whoever had written it though, the message was clear. She was visiting during the next break in the Magisterium’s schedule, if that was “compatible with his plans.”

Sera wasn’t the nagging type, but she did stare at him over her drink until he caved and told her what the email said. And then some details about his family situation that he hadn’t thought about in some time.

“Thought your da was the one all gold-shit magister, not your mum?”

“The Thalrassians are the ones with the political clout. He’s just a composer.” Dorian spread his hands. “I think the term in Trade would be “trophy husband.””

Sera cackled. “How did it even happen?” Dagna asked.

“She needed his aunt’s support and he was tired of being the least important of his siblings. As a magister’s husband, he was able to force even his most mediocre compositions onto the stage.”

“Ugh,” commented Sera.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Dorian, and they did.

\---

When Josephine mentioned offhandedly that there would be solos in some of their upcoming works, and that SSO’s policy was that any member of the orchestra could audition for the part before they considered bringing in outside talent-- Dorian _almost_ forgot that his mother would visit soon.

He worked the piece into his daily practices, which made them slightly longer, with somewhat more repetition, but Dagna didn’t complain. Probably because he waited until she was gone to focus on the difficult parts. He did feel a little guilty about making his neighbors listen to the same melody over and over.

He was partway through the repeat on page three when someone knocked on his door. His bow screeched a little on the strings when his hand jerked. He couldn’t have lost track of the date? It couldn’t be her.

Dorian set his violin carefully on the bed and wiped his hands on his thighs. It was probably just Stitches coming to complain again. Dorian didn’t think nine-thirty was an unreasonable time to practice, whatever he said. Besides, one time, Stitches had vacuumed his apartment at two in the morning.

“Coming!” he called, and pulled a shirt on before he hurried to the door.

It was Bull. He leaned down to kiss Dorian and grinned at him. “Good morning,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

Dorian smiled back, swallowing down the urge to say something completely inane, like “it is now.” Instead, he kissed Bull again, softly. “What brings you to this part if town so early?” he asked instead. “It can’t just be for the joy of seeing me, incomparable as I am.”

“It can’t?” Bull replied, and Dorian, for all that he’d set himself up for that, experienced a moment of utter confusion. Was it so unreasonable that Bull would come to see him? It _was_ unreasonable that he managed to be both overjoyed and alarmed by the prospect.

He may have stuttered.

Bull relented. “Anders’ car broke down so I went to get Stitches after his shift at the hospital. I heard you practicing.”

“Oh, of course.” Dorian didn’t ask how his playing sounded. Bull would probably tell him it was good even if it was awful.

“I thought we could get some coffee or something? I think I left a shirt here the last time I came over, too.” He looked at Dorian more closely. “But I don’t think I need it back anytime soon.”

Dorian looked down at himself, and his cheeks heated. The shirt he’d grabbed off his chair was, in fact, Bull’s. It was soft enough to make up for the offensive blue and teal flowers, and the deep vee of the neck was significantly lower on Dorian’s chest than it was on Bull’s. He’d slept in it once or twice in the week since Bull had forgotten it. He’d been careful not to wear it out of his room-- until now.

“I’ve become rather fond of it,” he admitted. 

Bull’s smirk, which had been annoyingly sly, turned soft. “Keep it,” he offered.

Dorian cleared his throat. “So, where did you want to go for coffee?” he asked. Bull followed him into his bedroom as he changed into something more presentable. The shirt he folded carefully and tucked into a drawer with his socks and boxers. 

Bull leaned on the desk. “The place by Merrill’s shop?” he suggested. “They’ve got these tiny little cakes…”

Dorian pulled on his own jacket. “Lead the way.”

\---

“By the way,” Dorian said in his least casual tone as they sat down with coffee and a whole plate of cakes, “my mother will be visiting next week.”

Bull paused to take this information in, cake partway to his mouth. Dorian’s expression didn’t give much hint as to how he was supposed to feel. He looked tense, but not panicked. Bull had a somewhat higher opinion of Aquenia than he did of Halward, but that wasn’t hard to do. And it didn’t translate to _wanting_ to meet her.

“Since the first flurry of interest, my father’s trial has been fairly quiet, all things considered.” Dorian took a careful sip of his latte. “It’s entered a bit of a limbo while they bicker over technicalities like the credibility of a particular expert on ancient rituals. He’s to be a witness for the defense, but he has been implicated in his own, unrelated, wrong-doings. It’s a mess.”

Bull nodded. Since Cousland had sent Dorian the communique from the Tevene Imperial Court indicating that his video testimony was sufficient, he had tried not to think too much about the trial unless Dorian brought it up. If he did, Bull just started feeling too angry and helpless to function. The best he could do for Dorian was support him in the moment, not fly to Tevinter and track down a judge to intimidate.

“So she’s coming down when the Magisterium breaks for the holiday?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, hands wrapped tightly around his ceramic mug. “She would have come sooner, I think, but she and her staff have been running damage control for months now. She has to look especially dedicated to her principles. People are already calling her a hypocrite.”

“Honestly, that seems sort of par for the course for a Magister, doesn’t it?” Bull took a bite of one of the cakes.

“Mother’s run on a policy of transparency and honesty, from the very beginning of her career. There’s plenty of Magisters who aren’t concerned with actually following through on their campaign promises, but if her voters lose confidence in her…”

Bull nodded. 

“From the outside,” Dorian continued, voice calm but expression tight, “it does look hypocritical. She’s always been a proponent of stricter interpretations of the old Maleficar edicts, particularly in regard to Alti. So if she doesn’t take a very hard line on this, she seems weak. And honestly, I’ve been fine with her being… over there, up until now.”

Bull pushed the plate of cakes towards Dorian and waited for him to take one. “Why don’t you tell me about her? The non-Magister bits. What’s she like?”

Dorian took a small bite of the cake and chewed it slowly. “She went to all my recitals, even when I was a child. Father would sit in on my rehearsals and practice with me, but he would only go to performances if I had a solo. Mother can’t tell you the difference between an oboe and a bassoon, but that almost makes it better. She’s pleased with anything I do on stage, simply because she doesn’t know any different. Father’s always been disappointed that I pursued an instrument and not focused on conducting, like he did. He was more involved in my education, I suppose, but Mother always felt more supportive. It wasn’t as easy to disappoint her. Not that I didn’t manage to anyways,” he said with a half-hearted chuckle.

Bull ate the second-to-last cake and didn’t say anything.

“She rides horses,” Dorian said after a moment. “She hates water as much as I do-- we both got horrifically seasick the one time my father convinced us to take a family cruise. She collects these little porcelain animals. She gave me her peacock for my twelfth birthday.”

“That sounds… fun?”

Dorian squinted at him. Bull tried to look sincere. “It meant a lot to me, that she trusted me with it,” he said, almost as snippy as usual. “I never broke it. It’s still in a little display box on my desk at-- at her house.”

Bull reached across the tale and put his hand gently over Dorian’s. He blinked, but then smiled softly and squeezed Bull’s fingers.

“We had our differences, especially in my early twenties-- she’s not overly fond of my tattoo-- but outside of Felix, she’s the family I value most.”

Bull nodded. “I get it.” He was pretty sure that he didn’t imagine the way Dorian relaxed slightly.

“She likes reading historical fiction,” Dorian offered. “And classic sci-fi. We watch Star Wars together on her birthday every year. She throws a formal gala of course, but afterwards, we always have a night to ourselves.”

Bull was, honestly, still sort of skeptical about meeting a Magister. But he imagined Dorian, a year younger or ten years younger, curled up on a couch with his mother and a pint of ice cream. If that was the Aquenia he met, he could deal with it.

\---

Dagna and Dorian were in the kitchen, laughing about something that had happened at Merrill’s bookstore. He wondered if he should encourage Dorian to get an actual job with her. The SSO paid decently, but most members had at least one other source of income, like Blackwall’s carpentry, or him and the Chargers. He knew Dorian worried sometimes about money. He’d like it at the bookshop, Bull thought.

Dorian looked in on him briefly, and smiled warmly before he ducked back through the door. Bull didn’t mind sitting in the living room, since there really wasn’t enough space for all of them to be in the kitchen at once. And he’d get his time with Dorian later in the evening, once Dagna left for her evening class.

He was glad she liked him. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world if she hadn’t, but it felt sort of like getting approval from Dorian’s family, but better. She cared about Dorian’s happiness too, and thought that Bull was good for him. She’d even said so, one night at the Herald, and it had caught him off-guard, how happy that made him.

So he sat on the loveseat and listened to them clanging around-- “No, I _didn’t_ mix up the salt and sugar this time, Dagna, I am capable of learning from my mistakes!”-- and leafed through a book full of photos of ancient Elven architecture. There was a sticky note on the cover from Merrill telling Dorian to bring it back in good condition, and to look at page 452. That was the beginning of a chapter on the interactions of ancient Tevinter with the Elven buildings and relics that predated them, and Bull read a little of it. He wasn’t particularly interested in how construction styles and window shapes changed over the centuries, but he could see how it might appeal to Dorian.

There was a knock at the door, and he almost didn’t hear it over Dagna’s chatter about her dissertation. They all heard the doorbell, though, so he called “I’ve got it!” and stood up before either of them came out of the kitchen.

The woman in the hallway looked painfully out of place. She was wrapped in a dark fur coat with a high collar, though it wasn’t even that cold, leather gloves held in one hand. Her hair-- black except for the slightest touch of gray at her temples-- was gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly lined, and her grey eyes, under sculpted brows, were intelligent and bright. She and Bull stared at each other in confused silence.

She recovered first. “Is this the home of Dorian Pavus?” Her voice was clipped and accented, as Tevinter as the rest of her. There was a crash from the kitchen.

Dorian appeared next to him, eyes wide. “Mater,” he said, and Bull didn’t know much Tevene, but he knew what _that_ meant.

She said something Bull couldn’t understand, and Dorian responded, voice tightly controlled. Bull was about to retreat when Dorian’s hand landed on his arm. “Mother, this is the Iron Bull. I told you about him.”

She turned her attention from Dorian back to Bull, and he suddenly saw all the things that should have tipped him off: her height, the color of her eyes, the slant of her nose, the wry little twist in her smile. 

The smile was genuine, though, and Bull believed her when she extended a hand and said, “A pleasure, Iron Bull.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mrs. Pavus,” he responded, and shook her hand instead of doing something awkward like bowing over it.

“Thalrassian,” Dorian and Aquenia corrected him at the same time. “I never understood the purpose of taking one’s spouse’s name,” she continued while Dorian shrugged. Neither of them seemed offended. Well, he knew for sure that Dorian wasn’t. Aquenia was a bit more difficult to read.

“Would you like to come in?” Dagna asked from behind him. “Or is everyone going to stand on the landing all night?”

Aquenia and Dorian exchanged a long look. “I think perhaps I’ve intruded far enough into your space,” she said formally.

“I’m sure the hotel you’re at has an excellent restaurant,” Dorian offered in a similar tone. They both seemed like they were walking on eggshells, trying not to offend the other. “Just let me grab a jacket.” He guided Bull back into the living room by the arm, and beckoned his mother in.

She glanced around curiously as Dorian vanished into his room, but sat calmly on the same chair Dorian usually took.

Dagna looked meaningfully from Bull to Dorian’s open door, and then sat across from Aquenia with a wide smile. Bull took the hint.

Dorian had emptied his entire closet and half his drawers onto his bed. “I’m an idiot,” he growled when Bull closed the door behind him. “Her assistant sent me an email, I should have met her at the airport. I didn’t think she’d come straight here.”

“Are you alright?” Bull asked, and touched Dorian’s arm gently.

Dorian squeezed his fingers with a reassuring smile and turned back to his pile of clothing. “Mostly I’m worried anything I wear will be too dated.”

“Does she really care about that?”

“Only as much as the tabloids do.” He examined a dark blue jacket critically, rubbing at a small stain on the arm. “Though maybe it will garner me some sympathy, to be seen struggling. My old acquaintances at least, will see how far I’ve fallen. I’d never have been caught dead in last year’s fashions before.”

The mixture of calculation and self-deprecation set Bull’s teeth on edge. “Do you have to go with her?” he asked.

“She’ll have attracted attention coming here, there will be all sorts of speculation if I don’t.” He discarded the blue jacket in favor of a brown one, then picked up the blue again. “We want attention, of course, that’s why she’s here. Forgiveness, maternal affection, presenting a united front, that sort of thing.”

His tone was detached and matter-of-fact, like he wasn’t really listening to his own words. His accent had gotten a little stronger, putting stress on syllables that he usually didn’t.

“But do you _want_ to go with her?” Bull asked again.

Dorian looked up at him, actually looked this time, and his expression softened. He put down both jackets and stepped closer to Bull, putting a gentle hand on his cheek. “I’m alright, I promise.” He looked contrite. “We’ll have to reschedule, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. It was true enough for now. “I can go see if Stiches is home after Dagna leaves.”

Dorian smiled, and shucked off his sweater, pulling on a gray shirt and the blue jacket, after another moment of consideration.

“Or, I could just hang out here?” Bull ventured, not entirely sure why he felt nervous about asking. Dorian seemed almost fine, but Bull wanted to make sure that he was fine later too, and do something about it if he wasn’t.

“If you want to?” Dorian looked at him questioningly, then stood on his toes to kiss him softly. “I’d like that, I think.”

It felt weird, the way Dorian seemed so unsure of what he wanted-- he hardly ever qualified his sentences like that anymore. If he wanted Bull to stay now, he told him that-- but Bull decided it was because Aquenia had materialized so suddenly, and let it go.

\---

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Aquenia said as Dorian closed the door behind them. “It’s that you didn’t say exactly how _much_ of a Qunari this man of yours is.”

Dorian waited for the next part of the thought. She was fond of dramatic pauses.

“He’s a _lot_ of Qunari.” She confided.

“ _Mother_ ,” Dorian’s voice felt uncomfortably strained.

She smirked and pulled her gloves on-- Dorian noticed, with a twist in his stomach, that she wasn’t wearing any rings-- then glanced at his face. “Oh, I sound like an ass, don’t I? I’ve just spent a week with the Orzammar contingent, dear. I’m sorry. I’m used to being the tallest in the room.”

Augustus, the head of her security detail, fell in behind a step behind them as they passed him on the stairs.

“I’m sure you didn’t address them from a raised podium just to drive that fact home, did you?” Politics, and the way she conducted them, felt somehow like safer ground than the Iron Bull.

“What a heavy-handed tactic that would be! No, I wore heels like any civilized person.”

Augustus coughed into his hand. Dorian was allowed to actually laugh. It was strange to be speaking Tevene again, but not as painful has he had expected.

Aquenia’s hired town car was idling by the curb, attracting attention. Augustus opened the back door for them and Dorian handed his mother in, the movements rote. He slipped into the seat beside her, and they sat in silence for a few moments as the car pulled into the street.

“How are you?” He finally asked.

Aquenia sighed tiredly. “The polls haven’t been so bad as they might have been, though Erimond will certainly be using this come the next election. If we push the education bill through, that should bolster our support enough that we won’t lose the rural votes that we already have. I’ve had some communication from higher up the food chain-- there may be some scandals in Erimond’s future as well, so by saying the proper things to the proper people--”

“I meant you, Mother.”

She patted his hand. “That is how I am, caro. That is how I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering the final arc! Aquenia is doing her best. She's far from perfect, but she's trying.


End file.
